
1 1 
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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



DRAMATIZATION 

SELECTIONS FROM ENGLISH CLASSICS 
ADAPTED IN DRAMATIC FORM 



SARAH E. SIMONS 

HEAD OP THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH IN THE HIGH SCHOOLS 
WASHINGTON, D. C. 



CLEM IRWIN ORR 

INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH IN THE CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL 
WASHINGTON, D. C. 



SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 

CHICAGO NEW YORK 



PMt7©l 

S5 



COPYRIGHT, 1913 
BY SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 



©CI.A347494 



To 

Mrs. Elizabeth R. Walton, 

whose work in the 

Dramatic Interpretation of Literature 

has been the inspiration of young students 

in the City of Washington 

for many years, 

we gratefully dedicate this booh. 



PREFACE 

It is the aim of this volume to give practical suggestions 
for the dramatization of high school classics. The teaching 
experience of the authors leads them to believe that drama- 
tization of the literature studied is one of the most successful 
of all devices for vitalizing the work of the English class. 
Moreover, the imagined difficulties in the way of high school 
dramatization vanish entirely on nearer view or become, 
in the working out, a stimulus to invention. 

The selections here treated are familiar to students in 
the secondary schools. The dramatic illustrations offered 
are type studies and are intended as. a working basis for 
teachers and pupils in developing similar exercises. To 
facilitate their use in the classroom, they are grouped, 
according to the usual high school English course, in four 
parts, one for each year respectively; and are published 
independently in pamphlet form expressly for the con- 
venience of pupils. Their purpose is to instruct, the idea 
of amusement and entertainment, from the nature of the 
case, being wholly incidental. 

This book is sent to high school teachers with the earnest 
hope that it may point the way to making the regular, not 
the holiday, dramatization of literature an effective instru- 
ment in the teaching of English. Let us turn literature 
into life for the pupil and we shall give him an amulet, 
at whose magic touch new worlds are opened, — we shall 
give him in deed and in truth "that old enchanted Arabian 
grain, the Sesame, which opens doors; — doors, not of 
robbers', but of Kings' Treasuries." 

S. E. S. 
C. I. o. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

Page 

Preface ......... 5 

PURPOSE AND METHOD 

The Psychology of Dramatization 9 

The Pedagogy of Dramatization 11 

Types of Dramatization 14 

Practical Suggestions: 

A. Ways and Means of Dramatizing the Text 15 

B. The Problem of Staging 19 

I. Analysis of the Problem 19 

II. Suggestions for Staging 22 

(a) Setting . 22 

(b) Costuming 27 

(c) Lights 29 

(d) Characters 31 

Suggestions for Further Dramatization ....... 32 

A. The Novel 33 

B. The Short Story 39 

C. The Epic . . 43 

D. The Ballad 54 

Texts: 

I. For Specimen Dramatizations 60 

II. For Further Suggestions 61 

Bibliography: 

Psychology and Pedagogy of Dramatization 62 

Practical Illustrations 62 

Stage Setting and Costuming 63 

Music 64 



8 Dramatization 

SPECIMEN DRAMATIZATIONS 
FIRST YEAR 

(The selections for each year's work are paged as a separate unit.) 

J Treasure Island 7 

IVANHOE 23 

Robin Hood Ballads 47 

Episodes From The Odyssey 58 

Tableaux from The Odyssey 69 

Feathertop: A Moralized Legend . . . . . . . . .80 

SECOND YEAR 

The Iliad .7 

The Last of the Mohicans • 19 

A Tale of Two Cities 47 

David Swan: A Fantasy 74 

Kidnapped 78 

The Adventure of My Aunt. ^ 87 

THIRD YEAR 

SOHRAB AND RuSTUM . '7 

Silas Marner . 15 

Tales of a Wayside Inn 42 

The Purloined Letter 59 

A Spring Fantasy 75 

FOURTH YEAR 

The Vicar of Wakefield 7 

The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales 16 

The Idylls of the King: 

Gareth and Lynette 37 

Lancelot and Elaine 52 

Henry Esmond 58 

Comus 75 



PURPOSE AND METHOD 



THE PSYCHOLOGY OF DRAMATIZATION 

Primitive man and the child are essentially dramatic. 
Experiences in the life of the race are acted out by the bard 
as he sings of the deeds of the great man of the tribe, or by 
the braves as they circle in the war dance round the camp 
fire. Just so the child by gesture and look and pose acts 
out his own experiences. 

Says Professor Grosse: "The peculiar feature of the 
drama is the representation of an event simultaneously 
by speech and mimicry. In this sense nearly every prim- 
itive tale is a drama, for the teller is not simply relating 
history, but he enlivens his words with appropriate into- 
nations and gestures. . . . Children and primitive 
peoples are unable to make any narration without accom- 
panying it with the appropriate demeanor and play of 
gesture." The impulse to impersonate animate or inanimate 
objects, — it is immaterial which, — is second nature to the 
young of all races and cultures. 

Mr. Brander Matthews, in his Study of the Drama, cites 
two amusing illustrations of this impulse from the play of 
American children. The first is the case of three little boys 
"playing automobile." The eldest was the chauffeur, 
the next was the machine itself, while the baby in the rear 
represented the lingering odor of gasoline. The other 
anecdote describes the "offering up of Isaac" by two little 
children, a boy and a girl, aged respectively three and four 
years. "They were found in the ruins of an old house," 
says Mr. Matthews, "and in a sad voice the boy explained 



10 Dramatization 

that they were 'offering up little Isaac.' A broken toy was 
Isaac. A brick under a bush was the ram. They told 
how they had built a fire under Isaac, admitting at once 
that the fire was only make-believe. And when they were 
asked, 'Who was Abraham?' the little girl promptly 
answered, 'We was.' " 

Many of the games of our children are indeed neither 
more nor less than crude dramas imitating the life of 
grownups. Wordsworth in his Intimations of Immortality 
expresses this truth: 

"Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be laid aside 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage* 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation." 

The children of the older civilizations of China and 
Japan, as well as the children of the American Indian, the 
Eskimo, and the Bushman of Australia, delight in imper- 



Purpose and Method 11 

sonating the hero of their special tradition and in imitating 
in their play the life about them. The constructive imag- 
ination is the glory of childhood. The province of make- 
believe is the particular territory of the child. 

THE PEDAGOGY OF DRAMATIZATION 

Dramatic presentation as a vehicle for instruction was 
utilized as far back as the history of culture extends. The 
pagan priest and the Christian Church father seized upon 
the love of the dramatic innate in human nature and made 
it serve their special ends. Through the dramatic appeal 
each taught his own peculiar cult or religion. The Bacchic 
festival of song and dance was the expression of the worship 
of Bacchus, and the Mystery and the Miracle play taught 
the sacred story of Christ and the saints. The religious 
idea yielded gradually to the popular desire for amusement; 
the holy day became the holiday. 

There has been incidental use of the drama as a means of 
instruction in the schools ever since there have been schools. 
In England, companies of boy actors were at an early date 
connected with the great public schools. Among them 
were the famous "Boys of the Grammar School at West- 
minster," and the "Children of Paul's." "The influences 
which produced these [companies]," says Alexander F. 
Chamberlain, "survives and flourishes today in the fondness 
of high school pupils and university students for dramatic 
performances." Neither was the drama entirely neglected in 
the early American schools, if we may judge by a curious old 
volume by one Charles Stearns, preceptor of the Liberal 
School at Lincoln, Massachusetts, entitled Dramatic 
Dialogues for Use in the Schools, published in 1798. The 
author of this volume insists upon the pedagogical and 
ethical value of dramatic presentation. In the Introduction 



12 Dramatization 

he says: "The rudest nymphs and swains by practicing 
on rhetoric will soon acquire polite manners, for they will 
often personate the most polite character. And though the 
surly majesty of some male despots among us may envy 
the graces of rhetoric to women, because they feel them- 
selves already outdone by women in every other excellence; 
yet it is certain that a clear, genteel manner of expressing 
themselves is a vast advantage to women in forming that 
important alliance which is to last through life." Each 
play or dramatic dialogue included in the volume is intended 
to teach some virtue as is plainly indicated on the title page, 
for instance : The Woman of Honour (Goodness of heart and 
veracity of speech) ; The Mother of a Family (Patience) ; 
The Gamester (Mildness of temper); The Male Coquette 
(Absurdity of lying and hypocrisy); Roncesevalles (Self 
government) . 

Not until today, however, under the teachings of the 
new psychology, has any attempt been made to use the 
dramatic instinct of the child in a definite, systematic 
way as an aid in the teaching of English literature. We 
now recognize that the child's instincts and innate ten- 
dencies are to be reckoned with, that they may indeed 
serve as guides or as points of departure in our educative 
process. At the high school age the dramatic and the 
imitative instincts are still vital forces in the life of the 
boy and girl. Dramatization, which appeals to both the 
dramatic and the imitative instincts is therefore an excel- 
lent device for the teaching of literature. In its power to 
rouse interest, to stir the imagination, to create illusion, 
to induce appreciation of the masterpiece, and thus to 
quicken a love for literature, dramatization has no equal. 
For literature is life, the life of other times and peoples, — 
real or fantastic, — and life is action. Whatever helps 
the boy to visualize the life of other days will help him 



Purpose and Method 13 

to vitalize the people of those days. Dramatization 
makes the past, present; the then, now, gives us a mimic 
world, actually turns literature into life. Hence the 
dramatic appeal is perhaps the most compelling in the 
teaching of certain types of masterpieces. The dramatiz- 
ation of any bit of literature "is the best possible return 
which the children can make of their literary training 
and at the same time the best possible means of secur- 
ing their apprehension of the story they use," says 
Porter Landor MacClintock in Literature in the Elementary 
School. 

Much is being done today in the way of dramatic 
treatment of literature in the elementary schools, but much 
remains yet to do. The custom of having the child act 
out his little songs and stories in the first few grades' is 
rather widespread. But as he progresses from grade to 
grade, less and less dramatic work is done, until, when he 
reaches the high school, there is scarcely any systematic 
attempt to relate such work to the study of literature. It 
is true that many high schools have dramatic associations 
and give creditable performances during the year for the 
purpose of entertainment, but it is also true that very few 
high schools are doing dramatic work in connection with the 
study of literature. The notable exception of the Ethical 
Culture School of New York City, of course, comes to mind, 
and there are certain public high schools scattered here and 
there over the United States where something is being 
done along this line. Just now, however, we need an organ- 
ized correlation of the dramatic and the literary in our 
English courses, and it is the aim of this book to show 
that such correlation is not only possible but is most effective 
in the teaching of English. President G. Stanley Hall of 
Clark University says : " A recent writer demands a theater in 
every high school, where young people should be encouraged 



14 Dramatization 

to read and sometimes act parts, and to assume in fancy 
the roles of the characters of great men." While we can 
hardly hope for "a theater in every high school" as yet, 
still, even out of very crude conditions, ways and means 
may be devised for making both possible and effective, 
dramatic presentations of scenes from the literature studied. 

TYPES OF DRAMATIZATION 

As used in this volume, the term dramatization means 
not only the recasting of the text in the form of dialogue, 
but also and always the presentation of the dramatic 
version of the scene or incident. This book illustrates 
several kinds of dramatic treatment : 

First, and simplest, the dramatic dialogue, dealing with 
separate situations and making no attempt to present a 
dramatic unit, as in the adaptations from Kidnapped. 

Second, the dramatization of various situations chosen 
from the classic, combined in such a way as to form a 
single dramatic unit with a well defined climax. The 
illustrations of this type are the scenes from Treasure 
Island, Silas Marner, The Vicar of Wakefield, Ivanhoe, 
A Tale of Two Cities, Henry Esmond, Sohrab and Rustum, 
Lancelot and Elaine, the Iliad, and the Odyssey, — by far the 
greater number of the selections dramatized. 

Third, the dramatization of the whole story, or the 
making of a drama writ small, as in the short stories here 
treated, the Robin Hood Ballads, and Gareth and Lynette. 

Fourth, the dramatization of the whole plot through the 
selection from the novel of leading scenes which are knit 
together by means of a new character, acting as a kind of 
Chorus. He presents the situation at the opening of the 
first scene, makes the connection between scenes, and 



Purpose and Method 15 

delivers the epilogue. The dramatic treatment of The Last 
of the Mohicans illustrates this type. 

Fifth, the dramatic reading visualized through the 
tableau or living-picture representation of the text. Here, 
a reader dressed in a costume in keeping with the spirit 
of the scene presented, but standing far to one side of the 
stage, out of the picture, recites or reads the lines descriptive 
of the tableau. In the case of a moving-picture presen- 
tation, the lines are read after the curtain rises on the scene, 
but when tableaux are given, part of the reading takes 
place before the curtain rises, because of the difficulty of 
retaining fixed positions for any considerable length of 
time. Scenes from the following classics are worked out 
after this fashion: the Odyssey, Chaucer's Prologue to the 
Canterbury Tales, and Longfellow's Prelude to the Tales of 
a Wayside Inn. The same method is applied to the group 
of lyrics which are woven into a Spring Fantasy, preserving 
in dramatic form the dominant note and the true spirit of 
the lyric. 

PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS 

A. WAYS AND MEANS OF DRAMATIZING THE TEXT 

In turning a classic into dramatic form, as little deviation 
from the original as possible should be made. The new 
form, however, compels, at times, changes in the text. In 
every adaptation contained in this book, the integrity of 
the masterpiece has been reverently guarded. Changes 
occur only when demanded by the nature of the case. 

The keynote of dramatic work for the high school should 
be simplicity. Consideration should be given to the limi- 
tations of the ordinary high school in the matter of stage 
equipment. It should be the unvarying aim to create 
the illusion by the simplest possible means. 



16 Dramatization 

The following hints on method may be useful to teachers 
desiring to dramatize certain bits of literature themselves 
or to have pupils undertake such exercises. They are 
based on the experience of the writers. 

First, as to choice of material for dramatic treatment: 
Except in the case of the dramatic dialogue, care should be 
taken to see that the scene or group of scenes chosen from 
the novel or poem represents a unit of thought in itself, 
practically independent of the rest of the story; that the 
unit selected is essentially dramatic; and that it is adapted 
to high school presentation. Such scenes, for example, as 
the fight in the round-house in Kidnapped, the slaughter 
of the suitors in the Odyssey, the tournament in Ivanhoe, 
and the diamond joust in Lancelot and Elaine cannot be 
considered, although they are the most strikingly dramatic 
situations in the several masterpieces in which they occur. 

Next, as to ways and means of working up the selections : 
Long speeches should sometimes be broken by the inter- 
polation of new speeches ; at other times they should merely 
be cut. For instance, in the dramatization from Sohrab and 
Rustum, the long speech of Peran-Wisa in the original, 
lines 65 through 93, is broken by interpolating a three-line 
speech for Sohrab and is cut by the omission of lines 79 
through 85. 

Scenes and incidents should occasionally be shifted to 
suit the conditions of high school presentation. Thus, in 
the selection from Treasure Island, the conference between 
Doctor Livesey and Jim, which in the story takes place out- 
side the block-house, occurs within, to prevent change of 
setting. In the dramatization from Henry Esmond, based 
on chaps, vii and viii, Book II, and covering three days 
in the original, the incidents of the second and third days 
are transferred to the first. 

Expository and descriptive passages must often be 



Purpose and Method 17 

changed to direct discourse. In the study from Book I 
of the Iliad, part of the speech of Calchas is made up 
from lines of the original, which are explanatory in 
character. 

New characters may at times be introduced to enliven 
a situation or to improve a stage picture. In the drama- 
tization of the ballad, Robin Hood and Allin a Dale, a 
number of bridal attendants are introduced in order to 
present a picturesque wedding scene and to make possible 
a merry dance at the end. 

Occasionally the introduction of a new character to 
act as the Chorus offers an effective means of unifying a 
series of scenes chosen from a novel and of making the con- 
nection between them clear. The character of the Chorus 
should be in keeping with the story. His lines — the pro- 
logue, epilogue, and interludes — may be written in verse to 
make his part the more distinctive. A good example of 
this type of dramatization is offered in this volume. In the 
scenes from The Last of the Mohicans, the part of the Chorus 
is taken by The Spirit of the Mohicans; his lines are written 
in the meter of Longfellow's Hiawatha. 

A speech should sometimes be transferred from one 
character to another. For example, the question of the 
King addressed to Gareth, in Tennyson's Gareth and Lynette, 
But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you? 

is transferred, in the dramatic study from this Idyll, scene 
ii, to Lancelot, and addressed to the King thus : 

But wherefore would he men should wonder at him? 

In the dramatic treatment of the poem, lines or stanzas 
from which descriptive or expository elements have been 
omitted must often be rewritten. Thus in the dramatiz- 
ation of Gareth and Lynette the opening line of Gareth's 
soliloquy which in the poem reads, 



18 Dramatization 

"How he went down" said Gareth, "as a false knight" 
is changed to 

How he went down, that slender-shafted Pine. 

In the dramatization of the Robin Hood ballad, Robin 
Hood and Little John, the opening stanza is based on the 
seventh in the original. The changes made can be seen by 
quoting the two: 

They happened to meet on a long narrow bridge, 

And neither of them would give way; 

Quoth bold Robin Hood, and sturdily stood, 
"I'll shew you right Nottingham play." (Original) 

Back, stranger! 'Tis Robin that makes the command 

This instant, back! out of my way! 

I y m bold Robin Hood, I '11 not be withstood, 

1 11 shew you right Nottingham play! (Adaptation) 

Incomplete or broken lines may, however, often be used 
for dramatic effect, as for instance in scene i of Gareth and 
Lynette, 

Yea, Mother . . . May I then . 

Sometimes several lines of blank verse or whole stanzas 
must be invented. Illustrations in point are the three-line 
speech of Sohrab already referred to above, the last stanza 
of The Baptism of Little John and most of the speeches 
in scene ii of the Chaucer dramatization. 

In the dramatic reading accompanied by the tableau, 
the following points should be borne in mind. Since the 
success of this particular type of dramatization depends in a 
great measure upon the reading, the greatest care should be 
exercised in the choice of readers; the selection should 
not be too long; it should be chosen primarily with a view 
to tableau effect; and it should meet the conditions of high 
school equipment for dramatic productions. 



Purpose and Method 19 



B. THE PROBLEM OF STAGING 
I. Analysis of the Problem 

The primary purpose of the dramatic work set forth 
in these pages is, at every point, the interpretation of the 
masterpieces of literature. This fundamental idea must 
not be lost sight of for a moment. It must be borne in 
mind that dramatization as defined above includes not only 
the molding of the narrative as a whole or in part, into the 
shape of a drama, but also and always, the acting of the 
adaptation in the classroom or assembly hall. There is 
little danger of wandering far afield in the first undertaking. 
But the next step, the presentation of the remodeled episode 
or story, must be carefully taken, for the path will prove to 
be full of pitfalls unless the goal is kept constantly in view. 
The means must not be confused with the end itself. If 
this new tool, the presentation of the dramatic portions of 
the classic, is used wisely, it may prove an invaluable aid 
in the unearthing of the "treasures hidden in books"; it 
may, indeed, be the "Sesame" to many a high school boy 
or girl who has plodded along the highway of literature 
with hitherto una wakened mind and heart. 

But the danger in the handling of the tool is that the 
glitter of its polished surface (for it is an exceedingly 
attractive implement) may distract the mind from the 
purpose for which it was fashioned — to delve into the rich 
veins of the treasures found in books, and bring forth the 
gold — the messages of the true Kings of Literature. 
The heading of this division of Practical Suggestions for 
the dramatization of high school classics may be a mis- 
leading guide unless its use is explained. The Problem 
of Staging resolves itself into the problem of dramatic 
presentation under high school conditions, whether the 



20 Dramatization 

stage is the floor of a classroom or the more pretentious 
platform of a high school assembly hall. 

If the student brought to the high school the imagi- 
nation which is his own by right at this period of his devel- 
opment, the Utopia of high school dramatic production 
could be realized. No accessories would then be needed 
to the vital means for the interpretation of literature, 
namely, voice, gesture, and action. But oftentimes the 
Elizabethan Age of the child's imagination is past when 
he reaches the high school. Some outward stimulus is 
therefore required to quicken into flame his smoldering 
fancy. 

Such a stimulus is afforded by extremely simple stage 
settings and costumes, both in classroom presentations of 
dramatic dialogues and short scenes, and in the more 
ambitious dramatizations presented in the auditorium. 
The action, setting, and costuming should be so nicely 
adjusted to their use as means of interpretation, that the 
audience will applaud the play or scene as a finely welded 
whole, and not a costume here, or a bit of painted scenery 
there. Elaborate painted scenery may do credit to the art 
department of a high school, but it is aside from the purpose 
of interpretative dramatic work if it thrusts itself into the 
foreground, usurping the place of the more important aids 
to interpretation, after the manner of the clowns whom 
Hamlet denounces for "themselves laughing to set on some 
quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though in the 
meantime some necessary questions of the play be then 
to be considered." 

Hence, all so-called theatrical effects should be studiously 
avoided in high school work of this character. Paint and 
powder, the wig and the mask, should be rarely resorted to 
for creating the illusion. The chief excuse for their employ- 
ment is the necessity for historical accuracy of detail, in 






Purpose and Method 21 

such scenes as those from Henry Esmond picturing 
life in the eighteenth century when patches, powder, and 
wigs for men and women were characteristic features of 
dress. For the stage productions in high schools equipped 
with footlights, a little make-up may be considered neces- 
sary to avoid a ghastly appearance of faces. Another case 
in which the use of make-up may be justifiable is when the 
text itself demands it. This is rare, however. A line here, 
another there, to change the boy or girl into a more realistic 
semblance of the older man or woman may help the imag- 
ination. But use of the make-up box should be discouraged 
as far as may be, in the production of high school plays. 

Thus far, the question of how to stage a high school 
drama in little, consistently with the idea of keeping the 
accessories in correct relation to the vital means of dramatic 
interpretation, has been answered negatively. The theme 
has been, What not to do. The suggestions that follow are 
intended to answer the question directly and concretely, 
as far as may be done in a work of this character. 

Here again, the keynote should be simplicity. The 
practical experience of the authors has been in a school with 
no equipment for dramatic work except a fair-sized stage, 
with green denim front, side, and rear curtains, so arranged 
as to afford a number of exits. These dramatizations are 
intended to meet similar conditions in other high schools 
but are flexible enough to adapt themselves to any con- 
ditions, from the most crudely, to the most completely 
equipped high school stage. Since classrooms and assembly 
hall platforms differ widely in the number and in the relative 
positions of exits, as well as in the size and shape of the floor 
space available for the action, it is useless to make the stage 
directions for the dramatization specific. The grouping of 
characters for a good stage picture and the selection of 
approximate exits and entrances must be determined by, 



22 Dramatization 

the exigencies of the situation in the individual high 
school. 

Again it must be remembered that these scenes are 
not treated from the angle of the theatrical stage. The 
stage directions are in accord with the purpose of the work 
throughout, which is educative, not spectacular dramatic 
productions. Even in high schools which are provided 
with every facility for scenic effects, a reversion to the 
primitive might be of great value. There is no perfor- 
mance more thoroughly enjoyed by the entire school 
population than a really home-made one. No apology 
should therefore be made for the use of the most primitive 
devices which may aid in interpreting the literary master- 
piece. In high schools equipped with a good art depart- 
ment, such simple scenery as may be needed can be made by 
pupils under the direction of the art teachers. This 
department may also assist materially in the designing of 
costumes. But, as has already been said, such work must 
not be too ambitious. 

II. Suggestions for Staging 

(a) Setting 

The first practical detail of staging to be considered is the 
setting. This implies the assembly hall performance, as the 
classroom dramatic exposition must leave the matter of 
scenery wholly to the imagination, though there may be 
a hint of costuming, and ready-to-hand properties may be 
utilized. Since an out-of-door setting may be produced 
most effectively and with the least outlay of time, energy, 
and money, these selections are drawn largely from out-of- 
door scenes in the texts used, or from scenes readily adapted 
to open air treatment. When interiors have been chosen, 



Purpose and Method 23 

they are for the most part very simple: for example the 
crude block-house in Treasure Island; the kitchen of the 
Rainbow Tavern, and Silas Marner's cottage in Silas 
Marner; and the cell of the Clerk of Copmanhurst in 
Ivanhoe. Even the scenes which may seem to require a 
more elaborate setting will admit of simple treatment for 
the present purpose. 

A glance through the table of contents will show the 
various types of out-of-door scenes. There is first the bare, 
rugged Scottish heath. In all high schools except those 
in the heart of the largest cities, the country is near enough 
to make possible the decoration of the stage for this and 
other scenes, with branches of trees of sufficient size. By 
the use of rear and side curtains and of high stools, or chairs 
inverted and covered with green denim or other inexpensive 
material, the branches may be arranged so as to create the 
desired effect. In the scenes from Kidnapped and in most 
of the scenes in the woods, the action must take place in 
an open space, so that it is necessary only to suggest the 
trees by a background of foliage. Inverted boxes and low 
stools draped with brown or dull green denim will answer 
for rocks. Shrubs, here and there, in some of the scenes 
may be needed. These are easily obtained. 

In the dramatization from The Vicar of Wakefield, a green 
floor covering will suggest the "smooth-shaven green." 
The path toward the cottage, which is supposed to be just 
out of sight, should be left bare, with potted flowers on 
either side. It may be separated from the lawn by a rustic 
gate at the rear-center of the stage, made from the trimmed 
branches of trees, the curtains being drawn apart to allow 
a glimpse of the roughly painted cottage in perspective. 
But gate, path, and vista may be omitted in the staging of 
this scene, a background of foliage giving the necessary 
hint. 



24 Dramatization 

The out-of-door scene from Sohrab and Rustum must 
have an oriental touch. As the stage is in semi-darkness, a 
somber background with a sky line suggestive of the tops 
of a multitude of tents is all that is needed. The desert 
may be realistically represented by strewing white sand 
about the floor. A painted background picturing the 
Oxus winding into the distance would be effective, but is 
not essential. 

The forest scenery for the Robin Hood Ballads does not 
differ materially from that already suggested. The device 
for making the fire here is the same as later described for 
the indoor scenes. For Gareth and Lynette, Lancelot and 
Elaine, the Spring Fantasy, and L' 'Allegro, a spring land- 
scape is the ideal background. 

If these classics are read in the springtime, and the school 
yard is not a thing of brick and mortar, they may be given, 
like the Ben Greet and Coburn plays, out of doors. Little 
staging will then be necessary. The fresh air, and the 
young green of the trees and grass will lend the required 
atmosphere. 

But the effect of a spring landscape may be produced with 
comparatively little labor indoors. If the season permits, 
the stage can be turned into a bower by means of quantities 
of vines, flowers, and plants, arranged as the needs of the 
play or scene suggest; or artificial flowers, just as good for 
stage purposes, can be used. Many girls know, or can 
easily learn, how to make flowers such as sweet-peas, the 
simplest paper flower to imitate and very decorative when 
strung on long twisted stems of green crepe paper. The 
flowers themselves are made of plain tissue paper cut into 
two ovals, one white, the other any color desired, — pink, 
yellow, or lavender. The colored oval is placed on top 
of the white oval, a small hole is cut in the center, the stem 
inserted, and by crushing the ovals in the center against 



Purpose and Method 25 

the stem, and giving the whole a twist, the sweet-pea is 
produced. For a relatively small outlay of time and 
money, a large quantity of such flowers can be made by an 
organized band of girls, working under the direction of one 
person who knows the art of flower-making in its simplest 
forms. Experience shows that girls enjoy such work and 
that the occasion may be made a pleasant one. These 
flowers, supplemented by plants, will make an attractive 
setting. 

The same general scheme, with the substitution of 
autumn tints for the colors of spring, will serve for the 
pictures from II Penseroso. In the out-of-door scene from 
the Odyssey, the surroundings of the grotto may be sug- 
gested by vines and flowers fastened to the side and rear 
curtains, a green floor covering, as in the study from The 
Vicar of Wakefield, and plants scattered here and there. 
The opening into the grotto may be represented by drawing 
apart the rear curtains in the center, showing glimpses of a 
Greek interior, hints for which are given in the setting for 
the Odyssey tableaux. If painted scenery is a possibility, 
the description in the original text may be closely followed. 

No detailed, systematic discussion of devices for securing 
good effects with a minimum of expenditure is necessary 
in the case of indoor scenes. A few scattered hints may be 
helpful, however. In several of the interiors, notably 
those from Treasure Island, Chaucer's Prologue, Long- 
fellow's Prelude, and Ivanhoe, an open fire is made necessary 
by the situation or by the action. Gas logs, and even 
electric connections are hardly feasible on a high school 
stage. Hence the following suggestions may be of value 
in the solving of this problem of stage setting. 

Unless the text or the action demands that the fireplace 
shall be in a conspicuous position, the problem of con- 
struction is comparatively simple. By placing it diagonally 



26 Dramatization 

across the right or left corner, well to the front of the stage, 
only one end of the chimney need be shown. This effect 
may be produced by a strip of manila paper, painted to 
represent bricks or stone, and fastened to a board forming 
one of two uprights attached at mantel height to a horizon- 
tal board, for the shelf, or mantel. If electric lights are at 
hand, a light may be placed so as to shine out upon the floor 
and into the faces of the actors, suggesting the fire-light; 
or an ordinary lantern will serve the purpose. 

But if it is necessary to present the fireplace to the 
gaze of the audience, a wooden box of appropriate size, 
lined with black cambric, the dull side out, makes a good 
opening. Around this is built a framework of wood 
covered with manila paper, or cheap cotton cloth and 
painted to imitate bricks or stone as desired. It should 
extend to the ceiling, or at least above the curtain line. 
Among the partly blackened logs, placed on wrought iron 
andirons, red Christmas tinsel is strewn to catch the light. 
This device is recommended as the least expensive and 
safest for creating the illusion. The fireplace in Treasure 
Island should be of the roughest sort, to suggest a temporary 
camp. 

For the rest of the setting of the scene in the block- 
house, some suggestions may not be out of place. The 
walls may be made of manila paper or unbleached muslin, 
roughly painted to represent logs and stretched over a 
framework. The loopholes in this case can be made very 
realistic. Boys who have played at camp life since early 
childhood may usually be found to build the framework. 
If not, a suitable background may be produced by side and 
rear curtains of wood brown or dull green denim with 
openings for loopholes. Rifles, cooking utensils, coats, 
etc., hung about the stage, further suggest the atmosphere 
of a camp in the woods. 



Purpose and Method 27 

(6) Costuming 

Next to be considered is the question of costuming. In 
the impromptu classroom presentation, such simple effects 
as may be produced by a cloak thrown over the shoulders, 
a cap of appropriate shape, a pointer for a staff or spear, and 
the like, are sufficient for the occasion. If a scene is 
assigned several days beforehand, however, the properties 
and costumes may be a little more pretentious; but the 
simpler the classroom dramatic work, the better it will 
serve the desired end. 

The costuming of the assembly hall production must, 
of course, be of a somewhat more elaborate character. 
For the scenes from Silas Marner, Henry Esmond, The 
Vicar of Wakefield, Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and the 
short stories, no suggestions need be given. For such 
costumes mothers' and grandmothers' chests frequently 
offer sufficient stores for the girls' dresses. These old- 
fashioned gowns may easily be remodeled in accordance 
with illustrations of the dress of the period. In like manner 
fathers' and grandfathers' clothes furnish the stage ward- 
robe for the boys. The men's costumes of the Age of 
Chivalry are not difficult to create with the aid of long hose 
and cloaks. Wood for the spears, and cardboard for the 
various parts of the armor, covered with bronze, gold, or 
silver paper, supply the equipment of the Greek warriors, 
the knights of Arthur's Round Table, and the Tartar and 
Persian chiefs. For the devices on the shields, colored 
paper or paint may be used. The manufacture of such 
weapons and armor ought not to be more than a pleasant 
occupation for the boys concerned. In these days of metal 
shop work in high schools, sheets of tin may be converted 
into realistic armor. A coat-of-mail, made of separate 
scales of tin fastened to a tight-fitting, sleeveless foundation 



28 Dramatization 

of heavy cambric is most effective, though it involves more 
work than is perhaps desirable. 

For the girls' costumes of the Age of Chivalry, and the 
Homeric Age, as well as for all tableaux and moving pic- 
tures, including those from the Odyssey, V Allegro, and 
II Penseroso, and the pictures forming the Spring Fantasy, 
cheese cloth is the best material. It is readily fashioned 
into graceful effects and can be had in any color. The 
selection of colors must be made with the idea of producing 
a harmonious stage picture, aud of emphasizing important 
characters. The effect of artificial light on the various 
colors must also be taken into consideration. For example, 
yellow and orange stand out clearly under artificial lights 
and so should not be used for unimportant or background 
characters; blue is not a good color; pale green and white 
are scarcely distinguishable; and red is dulled. Red light 
thrown on yellow will produce flame color. Because 
different dyes of the same color act differently under 
artificial lights, it is best before buying materials to get 
samples for testing effects. 

A feature of the costume which sometimes gives trouble 
is the wig. In most of the eighteenth century scenes 
wigs are indispensable, and there are other occasions when 
they are necessary. There are two objections to hiring 
them. In the first place the costumer's charge is usually 
high; in the second place the use of hired wigs is objec- 
tionable on hygienic grounds. Hence a suggestion for a 
homemade wig, such as has been tried and not found 
wanting, may be of value. A stockinet cap is first 
fitted closely to the head. To this is attached raveled 
hemp (clothesline furnishes the material) cut for parted 
wigs, double the desired length, and sewed in the middle 
so as to make the part; or cut for pompadour effects the 
desired length, reversed, and sewed around the edge so that 



Purpose and Method 29 

when turned back the ends will not be visible. The natural- 
colored hemp is used for light hair, and powdered for gray. 
For other colors the hemp may be dipped in dyes. The 
wig is held firmly in place by means of adhesive plaster, 
or cullodion, at the temples. Under artificial lights this 
homemade article proves a very satisfactory substitute 
for the hair wig. But as in the case of paint, powder, and 
the like, the wig should be dispensed with whenever it is 
not absolutely necessary. 

As to stage properties, one illustration of the more 
unusual type will suffice. In the tableau representing 
Odysseus' departure from Ogygia, the leather water and 
wine bottles, which must be of considerable size, may be 
made of newspapers, crushed into shape, with handles of 
twisted paper sewed at the sides. The outer layer is of 
soft unglazed wrapping paper, painted in water-color to 
produce the effect of leather. These two bottles are fas- 
tened to a cord and slung about the shoulders of Odysseus. 
In this day of the training of the eye and hand, as well as the 
mind, no high school lacks pupils or teachers, who will be 
able to suggest and carry out similar devices. 

(c) Lights 

Throughout this discussion a warning note has been 
sounded against making the setting too prominent a feature 
of the assembly hall production. This caution does not apply 
to the use of lights as an aid in creating the illusion. Day- 
light on the stage brings out all the crudities of setting and 
costumes. Artificial lights soften the whole effect without 
becoming an obtrusive feature of the performance. Indeed 
without their help the differentiation of day and night 
becomes an impossibility; tableaux cannot be made beauti- 
ful pictures; and the illusion at every point is imperfect. 



30 Dramatization 

Only a few years ago the problem of lighting a high 
school stage, even in some of the comparatively large 
cities, was a serious one. Today, even in many small 
towns, high schools are equipped with electricity. For 
daytime scenes, a row of upper lights is usually sufficient, 
though a stereopticon lantern which throws the light on the 
faces from the rear of the auditorium, used in connection 
with the stage lights, is still better. If the latter are on two 
circuits, alternate green and white lamps will be found a 
useful combination. For night scenes, the green circuit 
should be used, together with a green slide for the lantern. 
Experiment in high school stage productions has shown 
that green (for moonlight and other night scenes) ; red (for 
sunrise and for pink lights on white costumes in dances and 
tableaux); and purple (also for the dances and tableaux) 
are the best colors. A slide of these three colors can be 
made out of isinglass by cutting three pieces, each the size 
and shape needed for the lantern used, and sewing the three 
into an oblong cardboard frame to facilitate handling. For 
spotlights, a square of cardboard with an elliptical, oblong, or 
square hole cut in the center may be used where a sharply 
denned spot is required. To produce the effect of light 
shining through foliage, the cardboard should be torn instead 
of cut, leaving the edges of the hole jagged. A pocket flash- 
light will prove useful for the representation of a glow worm 
or a swiftly changing fairy light. Realistic lightning may be 
produced on a stage equipped with an upper row of lights, 
by turning them on and off at irregular intervals. In the 
first scene from Silas Marner, for example, lightning could be 
thus simulated. In high schools having neither electric lights 
nor stereopticon lanterns, acetylene automobile lamps, pro- 
vided with reflectors may be used with almost if not quite as 
good results. Slides large enough to cover the light can be 
made for these as described above. So the question of light- 



Purpose and Method 31 

ing the stage need not prove a troublesome feature of high 
school dramatic work, even in poorly equipped schools. 

(d) Characters 

Besides the problems of setting, costuming, and lights, 
there is the character problem. By this is meant the 
problem of adapting scenes to the conditions in a boys' 
school or a girls' school. The difficulty is slight in the 
former, as high school classics abound in scenes in which 
the actors are all men. Note the number in this book 
alone. Hence there is little need for a boy to assume a 
feminine role except, of course, in the classroom interpre- 
tative work. In girls' schools the problem is a more difficult 
one. But there are few cases in which in the more informal 
scenes, by the use of cap and cloak, a girl may not play 
a man's part. In the more elaborate assembly hall pro- 
ductions, men's costumes for girls can be easily devised 
for plays of the Age of Chivalry and for the Chaucer period, 
because of the almost universal practice among both men 
and women in those days of wearing the long cloak. Fairy 
scenes are peculiarly adapted to a girls' school. Such 
dramatizations as those from Treasure Island, it is true, 
could be used only in the classroom, but the classics abound 
in opportunities for girls in the assembly hall performance. 
The scene in the dressing room on the night of the party 
at Squire Cass's, in Silas Marner, and the scene between 
Rebecca and Rowena at the close of Ivanhoe are two of 
many that might be mentioned. 

In the foregoing suggestions for setting and costuming, 
the emphasis which has been laid upon simple homemade 
devices for creating the illusion will, it is hoped, make clear 
the distinction between this interpretative dramatic work 
and the customary high school entertainment of the 



32 Dramatization 

Dramatic Association. The latter has its place in high 
school life, a place which these dramatizations are in no 
sense intended to usurp. Its field is the assembly hall stage; 
its purpose is to entertain. And so long as its tone and 
character are in keeping with the general spirit and purpose 
of education, every means to that end, however spectac- 
ular, is legitimate. The Dramatic Association of the 
secondary school is one of its most valuable interests and 
everything should be done to arouse enthusiasm for its 
activities. But the purpose of these dramatizations is to 
arouse an interest in English classics through an appeal to 
the natural desire of a boy or girl to express life in action. 
Their true field, is, therefore, the classroom. When the 
assembly hall is used for their presentation it becomes an 
enlarged classroom, since here the dominating idea of the 
assembly hall production is, like that of the classroom per- 
formance, the interpretation of literature. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER 
DRAMATIZATION 

The following hints for further work of the nature 
indicated by the specimen dramatizations in this book are 
not mere addenda. They are, in fact, an integral part of 
the plan, designed for the use of teachers, or of pupils under 
the guidance of their instructors. Many of the suggestions 
concern the dramatic adaptation of additional units 
selected from the masterpieces chosen for dramatization. 
Others deal with classics familiar to high school students 
but not represented here. In the former case it is usually 
unnecessary to work out the proposed treatment in great 



Purpose and Method 33 

detail, as the model stands ready to hand. But in the 
latter, it is deemed advisable to go into the minutiae of the 
method to be adopted, chiefly with a view to saving time 
for both teacher and pupil. For the sake of convenience, 
the suggestions are grouped as follows; the novel; the short 
story; the epic; the ballad; the lyric. 



A. THE NOVEL 

/. KIDNAPPED 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

Owing to the nature of the great dramatic situation in 
Kidnapped, covered by chaps, viii, ix, x, and xi, it would 
be absurd to attempt a dramatization of the complete 
story for the high school stage. If a stage presentation is 
desired, however, many detached scenes may be worked 
up with the idea of showing the main actors of the story 
in situations which bring into play their most striking 
characteristics. This narrative is peculiarly adapted to the 
classroom, because of the simplicity of the action and 
setting in the chapters other than those mentioned above, 
and the abundance of material for dramatic dialogue in 
the chapters that do not admit of formal dramatization. 

The parting of David and Mr. Campbell, in chap, i 
makes an attractive little scene for the classroom. Few 
properties are needed. The text requires only slight 
changes. One or two suggestions for the stage "business" 
may be helpful. When the letter is handed to David, he 
should read the address aloud slowly, with growing pride 
in his voice, and a straightening of his shoulders. David's 
reflections at the close, as he watches the minister depart, 
should be put in the form of a soliloquy. 



34 Dramatization 

David's compact with Alan in chap, xviii, furnishes 
the climax of another episode that can be effectively- 
dramatized. The incident begins in chap. xvii. David 
appears, breathlessly running, in his effort to escape the 
soldiers after the death of the Red Fox. Alan is partly 
concealed from the audienee in a clump of trees (for our 
purpose bushes). The dialogue begins with Alan's sudden 
call, Jouk in here among the trees. They have hardly 
concealed themselves when two or more red-coats run 
across the stage in hot pursuit of David. (Omit the rest of 
chap, xvii, to avoid change of scene.) After the depart- 
ure of the soldiers, Alan and David come out of their place 
of concealment and sit down to rest. The dialogue 
continues with Alan's words at the beginning of chap, 
xviii, Well, yon was a hot burst, David, which in the original 
refers to their flight after David had joined Alan, but which 
can be taken as referring to David's flight alone. The 
scene closes with Alan's words, And now let 's take another keek 
at the red-coats. The curtain falls as they move toward a 
place from which they can get a view of the open heather. 

Chap, xxix offers a good closing scene for a series such 
as was indicated at the beginning of these suggestions 
or it may be used as a separate unit. The difficulty of 
representing part of the exterior of the House of Shaws will 
not be very great, as the stage is in semi-darkness. But the 
incident may be given in the classroom, without scenery. 
David, Mr. Rankeillor, and Torrance remain concealed 
from Ebenezer Balfour, but in view of the audience, during 
the conversation between Alan and Mr. Balfour. Their 
stage "business" will be suggested by the dialogue. To 
avoid the shifting of the scene at the close, the entrance into 
the house must be deferred. After the greeting of Torrance, 
It's a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour, Mr. Rankeillor turns to 
David and says, Mr. David, I wish you all joy in your good 



Purpose and Method 35 

fortune. Following his thrust at Alan, which closes with, 
I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism, as 
Alan turns away, deeply injured, Mr. Rankeillor takes 
Ebenezer by the arm, lifts him up, hands David the blun- 
derbuss, and says, Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer, you must not 
be downhearted, for I promise you we shall make easy 
terms. And come, Mr. Thomson, you must not mind an 
old man's jests. Mr. Balfour shall give us the cellar hey, and 
Torrance shall draw us a bottle of David's grandfather' s 
wine, and we shall all drink to the lad' s good fortune which I 
believe to be deserved. As they start to go in, the curtain falls. 



II. TREASURE ISLAND 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

Chap, vi of Treasure Island furnishes most of the material 
for a scene which will present the important occurrences 
in Part I of the story. The setting is the interior of Squire 
Trelawney's library. The stage appointments consist of a 
library table strewn with writing materials, two or three 
leather chairs, and a bookcase or two filled with books. 
The fireplace needed may be a corner fireplace such as 
is described under Practical Suggestions. Dr. Livesey 
and the Squire are seated in front of the fire, pipes in 
hand, as the curtain rises. A knock at the door is followed 
by the entrance of a servant, with Jim Hawkins, and Mr. 
Dance. They stand hesitatingly in the doorway for a 
moment, until the Squire says, Come in, Mr. Dance. 
When the Doctor asks the question, What good wind brings 
you here? Mr. Dance, interrupted now and then by Jim, 
who supplements the narrative, gives a dramatic account 
of the incidents of chaps, iv and v. The story should be 
briefly and breathlessly told. The stage "business" for 



36 Dramatization 

the Squire and the Doctor, is given in the text at this point. 
With the exception of the dialogue to be supplied at the 
beginning of the scene, the chapter provides all that is 
necessary to the making of a good dramatic unit both in 
the way of stage directions and dialogue. 

///. SILAS MARNER 

George Eliot 

An amusing little episode from Silas Marner, especially 
adapted to a girls' school, is the scene in the Blue Room at 
Squire Cass's on New Year's Eve, chap. xi. The dialogue 
can be readily expanded from suggestions in the text itself. 
When the curtain rises, the ladies are putting the finishing 
touches to their toilets. Nancy enters, makes a curtsy, 
and is greeted by her aunt, who says, Niece, I hope I see 
you ivell in health. Nancy busies herself with her toilet, 
from time to time expressing her anxiety about Priscilla's 
failure to appear. Just as she clasps her coral necklace 
about her neck, her sister enters, throws off her cloak, 
displaying a gown the exact counterpart of Nancy's, and 
exclaims, What do you think o' 'these gowns, Aunt Osgood? 
During the ensuing dialogue, Priscilla, with Nancy's help, 
rearranges her hair, smooths out the folds of her gown, and 
puts on a lace collar like Nancy's, which she takes from her 
bag. She pauses, from time to time, to address one or 
another of the ladies present. They go out one by one, 
until only Mrs. Osgood, the Miss Gunns, and the Lam- 
meter sisters remain. Priscilla's remarks addressed to the 
Miss Gunns are followed by their departure with Mrs. 
Osgood. The scene closes with Priscilla's words, Come, we 
can go down now. I'm as ready as a mawkin can be — 
there 's nothing a-wanting to frighten the crows, now I 've got 
my ear-droppers in. 



Purpose and Method 37 

IV. IVANHOE 

Sir Walter Scott 

A very pretty stage picture can be made by the drama- 
tization of the last part of the last chapter of Ivanhoe, the 
meeting of Rebecca and Rowena. 

This takes place in the garden of the Lady Rowena, 
which can be represented with little difficulty. Two or 
three rustic benches, one or two tables on which there stand 
vases of flowers, and several large palms will aid in produc- 
ing the desired effect. 

As the curtain rises, the Lady Rowena is discovered 
sitting on a rustic bench, arranging some flowers in a vase 
on a small table in front of her. Her maid, Elgitha, enters, 
ushering in Rebecca, who is closely veiled. Rowena rises 
to greet her visitor and is about to conduct her to a seat 
when Rebecca intimates, by glancing at Elgitha, that she 
desires to be alone with Rowena. So Rowena dismisses 
her maid, who, very unwillingly, leaves the stage. Then 
Rebecca kneels before Rowena and kisses the hem of her 
garment. The action and dialogue for the scene are 
indicated in the text. 

The contrast between the Jewess and the Saxon maiden 
should be made as striking as possible by difference of 
costume, ornaments, and mode of hair dressing. The 
Lady Rowena should wear rich bridal robes trimmed with 
pearls; her bridal veil, held in place by a headdress of pearls, 
falls over her face. Her hair should be braided in two 
plaits. A rich cloak hangs over the rustic seat. Rebecca 
should be dressed in an oriental costume full of color; her 
veil, which reaches to the ground, partially conceals her 
features. Her dark hair is dressed high. 



38 Dramatization 

V. A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

Charles Dickens 

Among the many single scenes in A Tale of Two Cities 
suitable for dramatization, The Jackal, Book II, chap, v, 
and A Plea, Book II, chap, xx, are suggested. 

The Jackal 

The scene is a dingy room. Two or three bookcases 
filled with law books occupy the rear of the stage. On a 
table littered with papers, a lamp burns dimly. Stryver 
sits at the table reading. (The text gives a description 
of the appearance of Stryver). On a small stand at one 
side are a decanter of wine, a water-bottle, and glasses. 
As the curtain goes up, a knock is heard and Stryver rises 
to admit Carton. After the greeting, You are a little late, 
Memory, Stryver settles himself comfortably in an easy 
chair and Carton takes a seat at the table and begins to 
sort and straighten the papers, jotting down notes from 
time to time. All the while, the conversation as given in 
the text proceeds. The action described in the original 
suggesting the sobering down of Carton to work is omitted, 
and the drinking is reduced to a glass or two. Other 
changes are unnecessary. The talk, beginning with 
Stryver's welcome, continues through Carton's speech 
ending, And now I '11 have no more drink; I '11 get to bed. 

A Plea 
The scene presents the pleasant living room of Dr. Man- 
ette's home. Dr. Manette and Mr. Lorry are seated at 
a small table deeply engrossed in a game of chess. Charles 
Darnay is standing before the open fire with his hands 
behind him. As the curtain rises, Sydney Carton is 
announced. Greetings are exchanged and Darnay, remark- 
ing that they will leave Dr. Manette and Mr. Lorry to 



Purpose and Method 39 

their game, leads Carton to the other side of the stage. 
They seat themselves comfortably and the conversation 
given in the text takes place. When Carton leaves, Darnay 
walks over to the two men and declares that he will break 
up their game, as he wants them to be sociable. But just 
then Lucy, accompanied by Miss Pross, enters, hat and 
cloak on. Darnay greets her and then tells her laughingly 
that she has just missed an old friend. He next makes a 
remark about Carton's carelessness and recklessness, a 
remark which evidently hurts Lucy. Miss Pross, in the 
meantime, has removed Lucy's hat and wrap. She now 
leaves, but returns immediately with a tray on which are 
tea and cakes. These she passes to Mr. Lorry and Dr. 
Manette, and to Lucy and Darnay, who have seated 
themselves at a small table. The conversation begins 
with Darnay 's speech, We are thoughtful tonight! — and 
continues unchanged throughout the chapter, with the 
exception that the love passages are cut. As Darnay says, 
/ will always remember it, dear Heart, I will remember it as 
long as I live, they rise and go over to Dr. Manette and Mr. 
Lorry, who are still absorbed in their game of chess. Lucy 
places her hand on her father's shoulder and playfully 
rebukes the two men for keeping such late hours. Mr. 
Lorry pleads for just a minute more, and the curtain goes 
down as Lucy takes out her watch to time them. 

B. THE SHORT STORY 

The number of short stories that lend themselves to 
dramatization is legion. Besides those used in this book, 
the following are suggested for high school work : The 
Ambitious Guest, from Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales; The 
Hungry Man Was Fed, from Richard Harding Davis's 
Van Bibber and Others, and The First Parish Meeting, from 
Quiller-Couch's Wandering Heath. 



40 Dramatization 

I. THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 

Hawthorne's The Ambitious Guest, though a somber 
theme, can be effectively dramatized. Practically no 
changes need be made in turning the story into a drama. 
The situation and action, — the family group gathered 
around the fireside of the large kitchen of a mountain 
cottage; the arrival of the stranger; the significant 
conversation; the ominous noise outside; and the wild flight 
of the inmates in search of safety — can be represented 
impressively even on a high school stage. 



//. THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED 
Richard Harding Davis 

An amusing little play in two scenes might be made 
of Davis's The Hungry Man Was Fed. The following 
hints may be helpful. 

Scene I 

The stage should present a busy New York street. A 
drop curtain painted to represent the outside of shops is of 
course the best device for suggesting the setting, but a line 
of tall screens covered with posters advertising wares and 
picturing shops will serve the purpose. People are hurry- 
ing to and fro. Standing conspicuously at one end of the 
street is the beggar. Van Bibber enters, stops, and looks 
confusedly around. He walks back and forth not knowing 
which way to turn. Soon he meets a friend. They 
exchange greetings as in the story. When Van Bibber starts 



Purpose and Method 41 

to go off, he is accosted by the beggar, who asks for money, 
as in the text. Van Bibber tosses him a quarter and 
hurries away after making the remark given in the story. 
The beggar remains on the stage; takes out his money bag 
and soliloquizes somewhat in this manner; My, he was an 
easy guy! I wish they was all like him! People continue 
to pass, the beggar trying his wiles on all of them. None 
take notice of him, however. Presently Van Bibber 
appears again. He is puzzled, remarks that he has lost 
his bearings, that he is just where he started from. He 
spies the beggar again and watches him get ten cents from 
two men. The beggar then comes toward Van Bibber. 
He does not recognize him, repeats his sad tale, and Van 
Bibber this time hands him a half dollar, remarking to 
himself that now the beggar surely has enough money to 
buy something to eat. Then Van Bibber disappears, but 
almost immediately reappears. The beggar again 
approaches him. Van Bibber, though now thoroughly 
exasperated, pretends great sympathy for him. The dia- 
logue proceeds as in the text, ending by Van Bibber's 
insisting on taking the beggar to breakfast. 



Scene II 

The scene is the eating room of a very ordinary restau- 
rant. It may be suggested by several small tables set for 
serving, at some of which people are seated eating. Three 
or four boys wearing white aprons, napkins over their 
arms, stand waiting. As the curtain rises, Van Bibber 
enters, accompanied by the beggar. The action and the 
dialogue of the text are followed to the end of the story. 
The curtain falls as Van Bibber leaves the restaurant in 
triumph. 



42 Dramatization 

III. THE FIRST PARISH MEETING 

Arthur T. Quiller-Couch 

Quiller-Couch's story, The First Parish Meeting, furnishes 
a humorous situation well adapted to high school dramati- 
zation. 

The scene represents a political meeting in the Town 
Hall of a small English settlement. A number of men are 
sitting at rude tables; the Chairman is seated on a slightly 
elevated platform. The necessary action is suggested by 
the text. The chief change required is the turning of 
indirect discourse into direct, in the first part of the story. 
Toward the end of the incident, the word sick is substituted 
for cryin out in the speech, Because if so, he must please 
come home at once, Mrs. Hansombody's cryin' out; and the 
speech that follows is omitted. The curtain drops as the 
meeting is adjourned. 

C. THE EPIC 

I. LANCELOT AND ELAINE 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

An episode in Lancelot and Elaine from Tennyson's Idylls 
of the King with all the elements of a dramatic situation is 
The Quest of Gawain. The setting is the same as that 
described for the first scene from this Idyll. 

Elaine, dreamily wandering in the courtyard of the 
castle, her mind occupied with thoughts of Lancelot, 
suddenly looks in the direction which he had taken for the 
diamond joust. Her face becomes animated and she 
exclaims, 

A knight returning from the diamond joust! 
Why hath he left the barren, beaten way? 
Perchance I'll learn . 



Purpose and Method 43 

The knight appears at this moment and greets Elaine, who 
eagerly inquires, 

stranger knight, what news from Camelot? (Line 616) 
What of the knight with the red sleeve, my lord? 

The remainder of the dialogue must be similarly worked 
out. The action is fully described in the poem. Lines 623 
through 627 must be changed from indirect to direct dis- 
course. The time of the episode is shortened to one day. 
The Lord of Astolat retires into the castle after the line, 
Needs must we hear. Elaine accompanies him part way, 
giving opportunity for the aside of Gawain, line 640. Lines 
641 through 647 may be altogether omitted or a pupil of 
inventive imagination may interpolate lines based on the 
narrative at this point. From line 648 to the departure of 
Gawain, line 696, the only change necessary is the com- 
pletion of lines from which descriptive or explanatory 
elements have been removed. 

This short episode makes an interesting character 
study of Gawain and may readily be used as a classroom 
exercise without scenery. 

II. THE HOLY GRAIL 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

Another of Tennyson's Idylls of the King, The Holy 
Grail, admits of a slightly different type of dramatic 
treatment from any here given, a combination of the 
tableau, or moving picture, with dialogue. Because of 
this difference, scene i is given in some detail. 

The stage should be set as follows. Forward, at one 
side, but so that they shall be a part of the scene, without 
obscuring the visions as they pass, Sir Percivale and the 
monk Ambrosius are seated on a bench under a yew tree. 



44 Dramatization 

The time is late afternoon on an April day, hence the stage 
represents a spring landscape, though of a more somber 
character than for the dramatization of Gareth and Lynette. 
The general tone of the setting should be gray. If possible, 
a gauze curtain should be dropped across the stage, behind 
which the moving visions, suggested by Sir Percivale's 
story, come and go. This curtain may be dispensed with, 
however, and the effect of phantoms produced by filmy, 
gray cloaks, partly concealing the knightly array. Since 
the visions represent what is passing in the minds of the 
two men as the story progresses, a phantom Sir Percivale 
appears with the other knights. 

To carry out the story consistently to its conclusion, 
scene ii, the return of the knights to Arthur's hall, is 
represented as a dream of the aged monk Ambrosius, to 
whom Sir Percivale has promised to relate the rest of the 
story at another time. When the curtain rises on the 
second scene, Ambrosius is alone, sleeping on the bench 
with his head resting against the trunk of the yew tree. 
The stage is now in moonlight. The costumes still preserve 
the grayish tone characteristic of the visions in scene i. 

For the successful representation of this Idyll, a stereop- 
ticon lantern is necessary. In the pictures suggesting the 
visions of the Holy Grail itself, a ray of light thrown from 
one side, part way across the stage, will help to create the 
illusion. 



Scene I 
The dialogue begins with line 18. 

Ambrosius 
brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke — through line 29. 



Purpose and Method 45 

Sir Percivale 

Nay, brother, nay, for no such passion mine. Line 30 
(slightly changed) through line 36. 

Ambrosius 
, Lines 40 through 44, changing line 40 thus: 
Yea, one of your own knights, a guest of ours . 

Sir Percivale 
Lines 45 through 58, changing line 45 thus : 

Nay monk! no phantom, but the Holy Grail. 

Ambrosius 
Line 67. 

Sir Percivale 
Lines 68 through 72, changed to read: 

A nun — no further off in blood from me 
Than sister; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the stone, 
A holy maid . 

Ambrosius (Interrupting) 
But tell me how the miracle was wrought. 

Sir Percivale 

Lines 76 and 77, combined thus: 

She gave herself to prayer, and fast, and alms. 
Continue with lines 83 through 107; then 124 through 128. 



46 Dramatization 

First Vision 

As Sir Percivale continues with lines 101 through 107 and 
124 through 128, the picture of the nun suggested by the 
lines appears, moves slowly across the rear of the stage, and 
disappears, following a ray of light thrown by a lantern 
at the side. 

Sir Percivale • 

Lines 134 through 142; 149 (change but to and) through 
157; 160 through 165. 

Second Vision 

Galahad and the nun appear at the words, Go forth, the 
picture suggesting the beginning of Galahad's quest under 
the nun's inspiration. They move slowly across the stage 
and disappear. 

Sir Percivale 

Lines 179 through 202. 

Ambrosius 
Line 204. 

Sir Percivale 
Lines 205 and 206 combined thus : 

Nay, for my lord the King was not in hall. 

Ambrosius (Interpolate) 

But when the King returned did he see nought? 

Sir Percivale 

Lines 216 through 224; 258 through 276; line 314 
changed thus: 

But since your vows are sacred, ye must go! 

Ambrosius (Interpolate) 
And did ye all at once fulfill your vows? 



Purpose and Method 47 

Sir Percivale 
Lines 328 through 332, condensed thus: 

Nay, when the sun broke next from under ground, 
At Arthur s bidding, all the Table Round 
Closed in a tourney, such as Camelot 
Had never seen since first the King was crowned. 

Continue with line 338, followed by: 

We passed along the streets of Camelot; 

And knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor 

Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak 

For grief, — but some there were who called,"God speed! 93 

Then lines 358 through 360. 



Ambrosius (Interpolate) 

And then, my brother, thou wert surely first 

Or second only unto Galahad! . . . The cup? 



Sir Percivale (Sadly) 

Yea, so I thought at first — I felt, I knew 
That I should light upon the Holy Grail! 

Continue with lines 361 through 365; 368 through 378. 
Interpolate : 

Another time, brother, I will tell 

Thee how strange visions came and went, and how 

I took the false for true, until I found 

A holy hermit in a hermitage. 

Then lines 444 through 446; 454 through 460. 



48 Dramatization 

Third Vision 

The appearance of Sir Galahad in the hermit's cell is 
represented, as lines 458 through 460 are spoken. The 
three phantoms move slowly across the stage as in the 
other visions. 

Sir Percivale (After the vision passes) 
Lines 461 through 465; then, 

Now I go hence, and one will crown me king, 
Lines 483 through 488. 

Ambrosius (Interpolate) 
And then at last ye saw the Holy Grail? 

Sir Percivale (Interpolate) 
Yea, from afar, as Galahad entered in. 
Lines 526 through 532 beginning, 

I saw the spiritual city and all her spires. 
Then line 534 changed to read, 

And how my feet retraced the path I came. 
Lines 535 through 539. 

Ambrosius 
Lines 561 through 563 beginning, 

brother, saving this Sir Galahad. 
Sir Percivale 

Lines 564 through 567. Percivale sits in meditation, 
as the vision which represents his great temptation passes. 

Fourth Vision 

The Princess, with her maidens crosses the stage and 
greets the phantom Sir Percivale, who disappears with her. 



Purpose and Method 49 

Ambrosius (Interrupting Sir Percivale's meditation) 
Lines 630 and 631 combined to read: 

Saw ye, save Galahad, no other knights? 

Sir Percivale 
Lines 632 through 643. 

Fifth Vision 

The figure of Sir Bors passes across the stage, disappear- 
ing as line 634 is spoken. 

Ambrosius 
Lines 696 through 707, beginning thus, 

A pelican on the casque? Sir Bors it was. 

Sir Percivale. 
Ay, brother, truly, since the living words. 
Then lines 708 through 711. 

Interpolate : 

But night has fallen since my tale began, 
And thou art weary, so another day 
I'll tell thee what befell at Arthur's court, 
When some of those who went upon the quest 
Returned and stood before the King . 

Scene II 

The stage setting must remain practically the same for 
this scene, as this is simply another vision. But provision 
can be made in the original setting for a raised seat for King 
Arthur at the rear-center, forming a part of the surround- 
ings of the monastery. 

As the treatment of the text in this part of the Idyll 
is the same as that illustrated in detail in the scenes 



50 Dramatization 

from Gareth and Lynette and Lancelot and Elaine, no 
further suggestions are necessary except for the close. 
After Arthur's address to the knights, they softly dis- 
appear like the phantoms in scene i. Ambrosius wakens, 
looks about him in bewilderment, rises sleepily, and, as 
he moves slowly toward the exit by which Sir Percivale 
departed, says dreamily, 

I must have slept, and dreamt I saw the King 

And those great knights of Arthur's Table Round! 

And yet how real they seemed! 

III. SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 

Matthew Arnold 

The incident of the challenge, in Sohrab and Rustum, 
lines 195 through 269, furnishes a dramatic situation from the 
poem. It may be used as a second scene, coming between 
the two dramatized. Few changes of setting are neces- 
sary. Rustum's tent is of scarlet cloth, an effect which 
may be produced by covering the tent of Peran-Wisa 
without removing it, if the two scenes are to be used 
together. The poem fully describes the stage furniture re- 
quired. This must, of course, be modified to suit condi- 
tions. The falcon, for example, will have to be omitted. 
The scene is so short that the speeches will require little 
cutting, but the long speech of Rustum, lines 221 through 
241 may be broken by interpolating one or two lines for 
Gudurz. One such interruption might follow line 227. 
The treatment of the text is so simple and so exactly like 
that illustrated by the two scenes dramatized, that further 
suggestions are unnecessary. 

The scene may end with Rustum's call to his followers, 
or, if conditions admit, the curtain may fall on the scene 
described in lines 265 through 269. 



Purpose and Method 51 

IV. THE ILIAD 

(Line numbers refer to Pope's Translation, 
but any good text may be used.) 

Priam's Appeal to Achilles for the body of Hector, Book 
XXIV will make an effective scene of a totally different 
character from the episode of The Quarrel of Agamemnon 
and Achilles. The following suggestions may be helpful in 
dramatizing the scene. 

The time is toward morning. The stage at first is in 
almost total darkness except for a faint glow from a torch 
burning in Achilles' tent. The light thrown upon the 
stage should remain dim until the departure of Hermes, 
after which it should gradually reach the full morning light. 

The stage represents the interior of Achilles' tent, with 
its immediate surroundings. Achilles is seated on a stool, 
his head resting on one hand, his whole attitude suggestive 
of deep grief. On one side, a little to the rear cf Achilles, 
his two friends, Automedon and Alcimus, are lying asleep. 
The curtain rises on this picture. 

Enter the goddess-mother, Thetis, in flowing robe of 
filmy sea-green, sparkling here and there to suggest water; 
on her feet, silver sandals; in her hand, a silver scepter, 
resembling Neptune's trident. She stands by Achilles' side 
and lays her hand upon his head. 

The dialogue begins; lines 163 through 174. 

Interpolate an appropriate farewell speech for Thetis, 
who disappears into the darkness. If a magic lantern is 
available, the spotlight may be effectively used here. 

Achilles resumes his former attitude. As he sits obliv- 
ious of his surroundings, Hermes and Priam appear at the 
opening of his tent: line 562. 

For a description of Hermes' appearance, see lines 417 
through 426. 



52 Dramatization 

Hermes, having conducted Priam to the tent, now takes 
his leave: lines 565 through 575. Priam and Hermes are 
on foot when they appear at the tent, not in the chariot 
as described in the poem, since this would make the stag- 
ing too complicated for high school use. 

Priam enters the tent. The stage "business" is fully 
described in the text. 

Priam addresses Achilles: lines 598 through 633. This 
speech should be cut a little. The action for Achilles is 
described in lines 634 through 652. 

The next speech of Achilles should be cut considerably and 
the situation might be made more dramatic by interpolating 
short exclamations for Priam. Priam's stage "business" 
should be related throughout to the points of Achilles' speech. 

Treat similarly the dialogue to line 720. 

At line 720, to prevent the necessity of change of scene, 
a speech should be introduced for Priam, relative to the 
ransom. He then withdraws to bring in the ransom. 

A short speech for Achilles is here necessary, giving 
directions to his two companions, Automedon and Alcimus, 
(who awaken on the entrance of Priam) to oversee the 
bringing of the gifts from Priam's chariot. 

Achilles, now alone, groans and calls upon Patroclus: 
lines 740 through 745. 

Priam returns, accompanied by Automedon, Alcimus, and 
servants bearing gifts. This scene may be made a Greek 
pageant with variety in costuming, and in the character of the 
gifts, and with a picturesque arrangement of the procession. 

Achilles speaks: lines 749 through 785. Cut liberally 
according to the climax chosen for the episode. This may 
be either the invitation to the feast, or Achilles' final sur- 
render to the will of Priam. In the latter case a short 
speech should be introduced for Achilles, directing Autom- 
edon and Alcimus to prepare a feast in Priam's honor. 



Purpose and Method 53 

Preparation for the feast (handmaidens bearing dishes, 
tables, food, etc.) will make an impressive background. 
The climax is reached in Achilles' complete surrender to 
Priam's will. 

V. THE ODYSSEY 

Butcher and Lang's Translation 

The Assembly at Ithaca, Book II, may be utilized 
as a unit for dramatization. The stage setting is similar 
to that described for the first scene from the Iliad. The 
curtain rises on the Assembly at the moment of the 
entrance of Telemachus, who sits down in his father's place. 
The first change necessary is the shortening of the long 
speech of Telemachus beginning, Old man, he is not far off. 
Several other speeches will demand the same treatment. 
The episode of the eagles will have to be related by some 
one in the Assembly as an omen observed by him. Hali- 
therses, who interprets the omen, may tell the incident as an 
experience on his way to the Assembly. The passionate 
speech of Leiocritus addressed to Mentor brings the 
Assembly to a dramatic end. Telemachus remains behind, 
cast down by the failure of his appeal. He addresses 
a prayer to Athene, who appears at its close in the form 
of Mentor. Th'e scene concludes with the departure of 
the two in opposite directions to make ready for the 
voyage. 

There are numerous scenes from the Odyssey that may 
be woven into a series of beautiful tableaux, showing the 
place of women in the Greek household. Athene, Pene- 
lope, Arete, Nausicaa, Helen, the faithful Eurycleia, hand- 
maidens, and dancing girls, furnish a list rich in suggestion. 

The entertainment of Odysseus in Phaeacia, Book VIII, 
lends itself to dramatic treatment of a sort that ought to 



54 Dramatization 

make a strong appeal to first year high school boys especi- 
ally. This should be a real out-of-door scene. The school 
yard of most high schools will be adapted to the purpose. 

Alcinoiis has brought Odysseus to the assembly place 
where the Phaeacian youths are already gathered to do 
honor to the stranger in feats of strength and skill. As 
the curtain rises, the crowd is divided into merry groups. 
Alcinoiis enters from one side in conversation with 
Odysseus. The arrangement of the stage is the same as 
for the Assembly in the Iliad, except that the seats are 
more in the background, leaving an open space for the 
games. 

At the first words of Alcinoiis, the talking stops, and the 
assembled Phaeacians listen to the commands of the king 
beginning, Hearken, ye captains and counsellors of the Phae- 
acians. Change Let us go forth anon and make trial of divers 
games to Let us make trial, etc. 

He conducts Odysseus to the place of honor in the 
Assembly, and the other spectators seat themselves. 
The games are led by the sons of the king of Phaeacia. 
Each sport mentioned by Alcinoiis — boxing, wrestling, leap- 
ing, foot-racing — may be represented. In these days of 
athletics in high schools, there will be no difficulty in train- 
ing boys for such contests. Remarks for Alcinoiis, 
Odysseus, and others must be interpolated. A master of 
ceremonies arranges the program and sees to its execution. 

The text itself furnishes the dialogue for the rest of the 
scene. The challenge to Odysseus, his acceptance, his ex- 
hibition of strength in throwing the discus, the aid of Athene 
in human form, all contribute to a strong climax. The 
speech of Alcinoiis in answer to Odysseus may be slightly 
cut. The scene is brought to a close with the dance as 
described in the text. 



Purpose and Method 55 

D. THE BALLAD 

I. ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEGGAR 

A Robin Hood ballad suitable for dramatization by high 
school pupils is Robin Hood and the Beggar as given in Vol. 
Ill, page 187, of British Poets, Riverside Press, 1880. 
This ballad might be very easily dramatized in four scenes, 
as suggested below. The setting throughout is the green- 
wood. 

Scene I 

Robin Hood is discovered walking through the forest; 
he meets the beggar; they fight; Robin is worsted and the 
beggar goes scot free. For a description of the dress of 
the beggar see stanzas 3, 4, 5, 6. Action begins at stanza 7; 
conversation follows, stanzas 8 through 20, substitution of a 
phrase being necessary now and then for such expressions 
as, Says good Robin, The beggar answered cankeredly, etc. 
The fight is described in stanzas 21 through 26. The scene 
closes with the remarks of the beggar, stanzas 27 and 28, and 
his departure, leaving Robin lying prone, stanzas 29 and 30. 

Scene II 

The scene opens with the chance discovery of Robin's 
plight by three of his men, stanza 1 of the Second Part of the 
ballad. They bring Robin back to consciousness by throw- 
ing cold water in his face, stanzas 2, 3, 4. Conversation 
begins between the men and Robin in stanza 5. In stanzas 
6 through 10, Robin tells his experience and bids his men 
avenge him. It might be well here to interrupt Robin by 
inserting two or three speeches for the men. In stanzas 11 
through 15, the men plan to overtake the beggar and Robin 
warns them to beware of his pike-staff. In stanza 16, two of 
the men depart, leaving their companion to care for Robin. 



56 Dramatization 

Scene III 
The scene opens as the beggar is hurrying along. The 
two men are hiding behind a tree. Suddenly they leap 
upon him, stanza 22, and despoil him, stanza 24. The 
appeal of the beggar comes next, stanzas 27 and 28 ; then the 
retort of the men, stanzas 29 and 30. The beggar's explan- 
ation and proposal occur in stanzas 35 through 38. The 
beggar is freed in stanza 39. The men hold council, 
stanzas 39, 40, 41; they tell the beggar their decision, stanza 
42. Stanzas 44 through 46 give the action of the beggar 
preparatory to the climax, flinging the meal in the men's 
faces, stanza 47. His chastisement of the men occurs next, 
stanzas 49 and 50. The men start to run away, stanza 
51; the beggar addresses them, stanzas 52 and 53. Stanzas 
54 and 55 tell of the beggar's escape. 

Scene IV 

This scene discovers Robin half reclining on the ground, 
his companion keeping watch by his side. As the curtain 
rises, the men come running in all covered with meal. Rcbin 
greets them, stanza 56, and inquires why they are covered 
with meal, stanza 57. They tell their story, stanza 60 
through 62. The ballad is here in indirect discourse. It 
must be turned into speeches for the men. The thought 
of the last stanza should be suggested by inserting a speech 
for Robin with appropriate action. 



E. THE LYRIC 

I. SHORT LYRICS 

For treatment similar to that applied to the Spring 
Fantasy, the following themes are suggested: Winter, 
worked up, through various poets, into a Christmas 



Purpose and fyLethod 57 

celebration; Greek Characters from the poets, forming a 
series of classic tableaux; Fairy-lore and the World of Mys- 
tery, from poems dealing with the supernatural. The 
field is almost inexhaustible. 

II. V ALLEGRO AND IL PENSEROSO 
John Milton 
The many charming pictures found in L' 'Allegro and 
II Penseroso can be profitably visualized for high school 
use. Such presentation helps materially in interpreting the 
poems. The reader, in this case, may be dressed in 
cap and gown to impersonate the young Milton. As 
in other similar dramatic adaptations, he stands far 
to one side of the stage, so that he in no way becomes 
a part of the stage picture. The following tableaux are 
suggested. 

L'Allegro 
Tableau I. Banishment of Melancholy 
The stage presents a spring landscape. Melancholy, 
clad in somber robes, enters and moves about as if seeking 
a safe retreat during the reading of the opening lines. At 
the conclusion, Melancholy disappears. 
Reading. (Lines 1 through 10.) 

Tableau II. Summons of Mirth 
As Melancholy disappears, Mirth comes tripping in, fol- 
lowed by her companions, Jest, Jollity, Quips, Cranks, 
Wiles, Nods, Becks, Smiles, Sport, Laughter, and Liberty, 
appropriately gowned in Greek robes, flowers garlanded 
about them. At the closing lines, 

Come, and trip it, as you go, 

On the light fantastic toe; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; 



58 Dramatization 

i 

Mirth takes Liberty by the hand and leads in a merry 
dance. Music. 

Reading. (Lines 11 through 36.) 

Tableau III. Country Dance on the Green 

As the curtain rises, many girls and boys come trooping 
in, dressed in picturesque country fashion. One or two 
have violins on which they are playing a merry tune. They 
form for dancing, and as the lines are read go through 
with the figures of a country dance. 

Reading. (Lines 91 through 99.) 

Tableau IV. Fireside Scene 

A merry group of country lads and lasses are seated about 
a blazing fireplace, cracking nuts, and telling tales. 
Reading. (Lines 100 through 116.) 

Tableau V. L' Allegro 

The scene is a spring landscape. L'Allegro is discovered 
alone, seated on a rustic bench listening entranced, to music, 
as the concluding lines of the poem are read. 

Reading. (Lines 135 through poem.) 

n Penseroso 
Tableau I. Banishment of Joys 

The scene presents an autumn landscape. Several girls 
gayly dressed enter and frolic about the stage during the 
reading. All rush madly out as the last line is read. 

Reading. (Lines 1 through 10.) 

Tableau II. Summons of Melancholy 

As the lines for this tableau are read, Melancholy, 
arrayed in soft, clinging robes of somber hue, enters "with 
even step, and musing gait." She is followed by her com- 






Purpose and Method 59 

panions, Peace, Quiet, Fast, Leisure, and Contemplation. 
They join in a stately march, which they execute with 
much grace to slow music. 

Reading. (Lines 11 through 54; omitting 17 through 
22 and 25 through 30.) 

Tableau III. Fireside Scene 

II Penseroso, dressed as a mediaeval student, sits on a 
rude bench before a grate fire, which has almost died out. 
An open book is on his lap, but he is lost in contemplation 
and gazes at the flickering logs, as the lines are read. 

Reading. (Lines 73 through 84.) 

Tableau IV. II Penseroso 

II Penseroso, garbed in monastic robe, prayer book in 
hand, paces back and forth with measured tread, while 
solemn music is softly played. 

Reading. (Lines 155 through poem.) 



60 Dramatization 

I. Texts Used for Specimen Dramatizations 

Arnold. Matthew. (Sohrab and Rustiun.) 

Shorter English Poems. ^The Lake English Classics. 

Scott. Foresnian and Company. 
Browning, Robert. {Song from Pippa Pa 

Selected Poems. (The Lake English Classics.) 
Butcher. S. H. and Lang. A. Translators 

The Odyssey of Homer. The Macinillan Company. 
Chaucer. Geoffrey, i The Prologue.) 

Selections from Chaucer. iThe Lake English Classics. 
Cooper, James F. The Last of the Mohicans. 

The Lake English Classics. 
Dickens, Charles. .4 Talc of Two Cities. 

(The Lake English Classics. 
Eliot. George. Silas Marner. 

(The Lake English Clas-: - 
Gayley. C. M. and Flaherty. M. C. Robin Hood Ballads. 

Poetry of the People. (Ginn and Company.) 
Goldsmith. Oliver. The Vicar of Wakefield. 

The Lake English Classics. 
Hawthorne. Nathaniel. 

(David Swan and The Ambitious G 

Twice-Told Tales. i^The Lake English Classics. 

(Feathertop.) 

Mosses from an Old Manse. The Macmillan Company, i 
Irving. Washington. ( The Adventure of My Aunt.' 

Tales of a Traveller. , The Lake English Classics.) 
Lang. A., Leaf, W. s and Myers. E. Translators 

The Iliad of Homer. The Macmillan Company.) 
Longfellow. Henry YV. Tales of a Wayside Inn.) 

Narrative Poems. (The Lake English Classics.) 
Milton. John. (Comus.) 

Minor Poems. [The Lake English Classics. 



Purpose and Method 61 

Palgrave, Francis T. 

The Golden Treasury. (The Lake English Classics.) 

(Herrick's To Daffodils; Corinna's Maying.) 

(Wordsworth's The Daffodils.) 
Poe, Edgar Allan. (The Purloined Letter.) 

Poems and Tales. (The Lake English Classics.) 
Scott, Sir Walter. Ivanhoe. 

(The Lake English Classics.) 
Stevenson, R. L. 

Kidnapped. (The Macmillan Company.) 

Treasure Island. (The Lake English Classics.) 
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord. (The Brook; Gareth and Lynette; 
Lancelot and Elaine.) 

Selected Poems. (The Lake English Classics.) 
Thackeray, W. M. Henry Esmond. 

(The Lake English Classics.) 

II. Texts Used for Further Suggestions 

Child, Francis J. (Editor). (Robin Hood and the Beggar.) 
Ballads, Vol. Ill, British Poets. (Houghton, Osgood and 
Company.) 

Davis, Richard Harding. (The Hungry Man Was Fed.) 
Van Bibber and Others. (Harper Brothers.) 

Tennyson, Alfred. (The Holy Grail and The May Queen.) 
The Works of Tennyson. (The Macmillan Company.) 

Quiller-Couch, Arthur T. (The First Parish Meeting.) 

. Wandering Heath. (Charles Scribner's Sons.) 



62 Dramatization 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Psychology and Pedagogy of Dramatization 

Briggs, T. H. and Coffman, L. D. — Reading in Public 

Schools. (Row, Peterson and Company, Chicago.) 
Chamberlain, A. F. The Child and Childhood in Folk 

Thought. (The Macmillan Company.) (See chap, xvi, 

The Child as Actor and Inventor.) 
Chubb, Percival. Festivals and Plays. (Harper and Brothers. ) 
Deahl, J. N. Imitation in Education, Its Nature, Scope, 

and Significance. (The Macmillan Company.) 
Groos, Karl. The Play of Man. (D. Appleton and Com- 
pany.) 
Grosse, Ernst. The Beginnings of Art. (D. Appleton and 

Company.) 
Haskell, Ellen M. Imitation in Children. (Ped. Sem., 

Vol. Ill (1894-1895), pp. 30-47.) 
MacClintock, P. L. Literature in the Elementary Schools. 

(Chicago University Press.) 
Matthews, J. Brander. A Study of the Drama. (Houghton 

Mifflin Company.) 
Tarde, Gabriel. The Laivs of Imitation. (Henry Holt and 

Company.) 

Practical Illustrations 

Bryant, Sarah Cone. Stories to Tell Children. (Houghton 

Mifflin Company.) 
Gomme, Alice B. Children's Singing Games with the Tunes 

to Which They Are Sung. (D. Nutt, London, 1894.) 
Knight, Marietta. Dramatic Reader for Grammar Grades. 

(American Book Company.) (The purpose of the book 

is to help oral reading.) 
Laselle, Mary A. Dramatization of School Classics. A 

Dramatic Reader for Grammar and Secondary Schools. 



Purpose and Method 63 

(Educational Publishing Company.) (The only dupli- 
cates of material used in the present volume are The Vicar 
of Wakefield and Ivanhoe. The scenes chosen are differ- 
ent, however. In the first, Moses at the Fair is drama- 
tized; in the second, The Archery Contest.) 

Miller, G. M. The Dramatic Element in the Popular 
Ballad. (The University of Cincinnati Press.) 

Stearns, Charles. Dramatic Dialogues for the Use of Schools. 
Published in the year 1798, at Leominster, Massachu- 
setts. (This is a curious old volume. Its purpose is 
purely pedagogical and ethical.) 

Stevenson, Augusta. Children' s Classics in Dramatic Form. 
Riverside Educational Monographs. (In five books 
for the grades.) 

Woodbury, Sarah E. Dramatization in the Grammar 
Grades. (Baumgardt Publishing Company.) 

Stage Setting and Costuming 

Abrahams, E. B. Greek Dress. (J. Murray, London, 
1908. (Chap, ii, Homeric, with plates.) 

Calthrop, Dion Clayton. English Costume. (A. and C. 
Black, London, 1906.) 4 vols.: (1, Early English; 2, 
Middle Ages; 3, Tudor and Stuart; 4, Georgian — Excel- 
lent.) 

Catlin, George. North American Indians. ( J. Grant, 
Edinburgh, 1903.) 400 illustrations. 

Clinch, George. English Costume. (Methuen and Com- 
pany, London, 1909.) (One vol. — From pre-historic 
times to the end of 18th century. — Rich in plates.) 

Earle, Alice Morse. Tivo Centuries of Costume in America. 
Two vols. (The Macmillan Company.) 

Evans, Maria M. Chapters on Greek Dress. (The Mac- 
millan Company.) (With plates. Chap, ii, Homeric.) 



64 Dramatization 

Falke, Jakob von. Greece and Rome, Their Life and Art. 

(Henry Holt and Company.) Translated by W. H. 

Browne. (Rich in plates, showing furniture, dress, etc.) 
Gulick, Charles B. The Life of the Ancient Greeks. 

(D. Appleton and Company.) (Excellent. Rich in 

illustrations of buildings, furniture, household utensils, 

dress, etc.) 
Heath, Sidney. Pilgrim Life in the Middle Ages. (Hough- 
ton Mifflin Company.) (See Pilgrims, Customs, Tokens, 

chap, vi.) 
McClellan, Elisabeth. Historic Dress in America, 1607- 

1800. (G. W. Jacobs and Company, Philadelphia.) 

(Many Plates.) 
Peck, H. T. (Editor.) — Harper's Dictionary of Classical 

and Literary Antiquities. (American Book Company.) 
Planche, J. R. — History of British Costume. (The Macmillan 

company.) (Chap, xxiii, National Costume of Scotland.) 
Saunders, John (Editor.) — The Canterbury Tales. (J. M. 

Dent & Sons, London, 1894.) (Illustrated — Good for 

costumes and customs.) 
Traill, H. D. (Editor.)— Social England. (6 vols.) (Cassell 

and Company.) 
Ward, H. Snowden. The Canterbury Pilgrimages. (Lip- 

pincott Company.) (Excellent illustrations.) 

Music 

(Old airs suitable for Robin Hood ballads and songs in 
the dramatizations of Chaucer and Scott.) 
Chubb, Percival. Festivals and Plays. (Harper and Brothers.) 
Duncan, Edmondstoune. The Story of Minstrelsy. (The 

Walter Scott Publishing Company, London.) 
Jackson, Vincent — English Melodies. (From the 13th to 

the 18th century.) (J. M. Dent & Sons, London.) 



FIRST YEAR 



TREASURE ISLAND 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

PREFATORY NOTE 

Chaps, xxviii, xxix, and xxx in Treasure Island make a good dramatic 
unit suitable for two scenes: In the Enemy's Camp and The Way Out. 
The dialogue is practically unchanged, though much abridged, especially 
Silver's long speeches. The only important change of situation occurs 
in the interview between Dr. Livesey and Jim in scene ii. In the 
dramatic adaptation this takes place in the block-house, the men 
going outside, while in the story Jim and the Doctor retire. The 
reason is obvious: no change of setting is necessary and the action 
is continuous. Other slight variations are made by beginning scene i 
with Jim's arrival, which occurs in the last part of the preceding 
chapter, and ending scene ii with Silver's speech at the opening of 
chap. xxxi. 

It goes without saying, that here, as in all other dramatizations in 
which pipes and tobacco are required as stage properties, the smoking is 
simulated; and that here, as in all other drinking scenes, a substitute 
for liquor is used. 

Scene I 

In the Enemy's Camp 

Characters : 
Silver. John, the wounded man. 

Jim Hawkins. George. 

Morgan. Dick, and others. 

The stage represents the interior of the block-house. The 
furniture consists of two couches, made of boughs and covered 
with blankets, for Silver and John, the wounded man; logs; 



8 Dramatization [First Year 

boxes; and a large cask, containing a liquid to represent 
brandy. As the curtain rises, Silver and his men are dis- 
covered asleep. The stage is very dimly lighted. Jim enters 
stealthily, stumbles against a box and overturns it. The noise 
awakens the men, who spring to their feet, except the wounded 
man, who raises his head and supports himself on his elbow. 

Silver. Who goes? [Jim turns to escape, strikes against one 
of the men, and runs into the arms of Silver] Bring a light, 
Dick. [Dick comes at once with a torch or lantern] 
Jim! — So here's Jim Hawkins, shiver my timbers! 
dropped in like, eh? — Well, come, I take that friendly. 
[Sits down on the brandy cask and fills his pipe. Jim 
stands where Silver has placed him, with back against the 
wall, looking dazed] Yon, gentlemen, bring yourselves 
to! You needn't stand up for Mr. Hawkins; he'll 
excuse you! — And so, Jim, [busy with pipe] here you are, 
and quite a pleasant surprise for poor old John! I see 
you were smart when first I set my eyes on you; but this 
here gets away from me clean, it do ! [Jim starts forward 
as if to speak, but drops back against the wall] Now, you 
see, Jim, so be as you are here, I'll give you a piece of 
my mind. I've always liked you, I have, for a lad of 
spirit, and the picter of my own self when I was young 
and handsome. I always wanted you to jine and take 
your share, and die a gentleman, and now, my cock, 
you've got to. Cap'n Smollett's a fine seaman, as 
I'll own up to any day, but stiff on discipline. "Dooty 
is dooty," says he, and right he is. Just you keep clear 
of the cap'n. The doctor himself is gone dead again 
you — "ungrateful scamp" was what he said; and the 
short and the long of the whole story is about here: 
you can't go back to your own lot, for they won't have 
you; and, without you start a third ship's company all 



First Year] Treasure Island 9 

by yourself, which might be lonely, you '11 have to jine 
with Cap'n Silver. I don't say nothing as to your 
being in our hands, though there you are, and you may 
lay to it. I'm all for argyment; I never seen good come 
out o' threatening. If you like the service, well, you'll 
jine; and if you don't, Jim, why, you're free to answer 
no — free and welcome, shipmate; and if fairer can be 
said by mortal seaman, shiver my sides ! 

Jim. [In a tremulous voice] Am I to answer, then? 

Silver. Lad, no one's a-pressing of you. Take your 
bearings. None of us won't hurry you, mate; time goes 
so pleasant in your company, you see. 

Jim, [More boldly] Well, if I'm to choose, I declare I've 
a right to know what's what, and why you're here, and 
where my friends are. 

Morgan. "Wot's wot?" — Ah, he'd be a lucky one as 
knowed that ! 

Silver. You'll batten down your hatches till you're 
spoke to, my friend. [To Jim more graciously] Yester- 
day morning, Mr. Hawkins, in the dog-watch, down 
come Dr. Livesey with a flag of truce. Says he, " Cap'n 
Silver, you're sold out. Ship's gone." We looked out, 
and by thunder! the old ship was gone. I never seen 
a pack o' fools look fishier! "Well," says the doctor, 
"let's bargain." We bargained, him and I, and here 
we are: stores — block-house — firewood. As for them, 
they 've tramped; I don't know where 's they are. [Draw- 
ing quietly at his pipe] And lest you should take it into 
that head of yours, that you was included in the treaty, 
here's the last word that was said: "How many are you," 
says I, "to leave?" "Four," says he — "four, and one 
of us wounded. As for that boy, I don't know where he 
is, confound him," says he, "nor I don't much care. 
We're about sick of him." These was his words. 



10 Dramatization [First Year 

Jim. Is that all? 

Silver. Well, it's all that you're to hear, my son. 

Jim. And now I am to choose? 

Silver. And now you are to choose, and you may lay to 
that. 

Jim. Well, I'm not such a fool but I know pretty well 
what I have to look for. Let the worst come to the 
worst, it's little I care. I've seen too many die since 
I fell in with you. But there's a thing or two I have to 
tell you, [excitedly] and the first is this: here you are 
in a bad way: ship lost, treasure. lost, men lost; your 
whole business gone to wreck; and if you want to know 
who did it — it was I! [Men look at each other in amaze- 
ment] I was in the apple barrel the night we sighted 
land, and I heard you, John, and you, Dick Johnson, and 
Hands, who is now at the bottom of the sea, and told 
every word you said before the hour was out. And as 
for the schooner, it was I who cut her cable, and it was I 
who killed the men you had aboard of her, and it was I 
who brought her where you'll never see her more, not 
one of you. The laugh's on my side; I've had the top 
of this business from the first; I no more fear you than 
I fear a fly. Kill me, if you please, or spare me. But 
one thing I'll say, and no more; if you spare me, by- 
gones are bygones, and when you fellows are in court for 
piracy, I'll save you all I can. It's for you to choose. 
Kill another and do yourselves no good, or spare me and 
keep a witness to save you from the gallows. [Men sit 
staring at Jim] And now, Mr. Silver, I believe you 're the 
best man here, and if things go the worst, I '11 take it 
kind of you to let the doctor know the way I took it. 

Silver. [Significantly] I'll bear it in mind. 

Morgan. I'll put one to that! It was him that knowed 
Black Dog. 






First Year] Treasure Island 11 

Silver. Well, and see here. I'll put another again to 
that, by thunder! for it was this same boy that faked 
the chart from Billy Bones? First and last, we've 
split upon Jim Hawkins! 

Morgan. Then here goes! [Springs up and draws knife] 

Silver. Avast, there! Who are you, Tom Morgan? 
Did you think you was cap'n here? By the powers, 
but I'll teach you better! Cross me, and you'll go 
where many a good man's gone before you, first and* 
last, these thirty year back! There's never a man' 
looked me between the eyes and seen a good day a'ter- \ 
wards, Tom Morgan, you may lay to that. 

Morgan pauses; a hoarse murmur arises among the 
others. 

John. Tom's right. 

George. I stood hazing long enough from one. I'll be 
hanged if I '11 be hazed by you, John Silver. 

Silver. Did any of you gentlemen want to have it out 
with me? [Silver bends forward, pipe still in hand] You 
know the way! — Well, I'm ready! Take a cutlass, 
him that dares ! [No man stirs] That's your sort, is it? 
[Scornfully] Well, you're a gay lot to look at. Not 
worth much to fight, you ain't. P'r'aps you can under- 
stand King George's English. I'm cap'n here by 'lection. 
I'm cap'n here because I'm the best man by a long 
sea-mile. You won't fight, as gentlemen o' fortune 
should; then by thunder you'll obey, and you may lay 
to it! I like that boy now; I never seen a better boy 
than that. He's more a man than any pair of you! 
Let me see him that'll lay a hand on him — that's' 
what I say, and you may lay to it. [Jim stands straight 
against the wall, looking more hopeful. Silver leans 
back against the other wall, pipe in mouth, arms crossed, 
calm, but watching the men furtively. The men draw 



12 Dramatization [First Year 

together and whisper] You seem to have a lot to say. 
Pipe up and let me hear it, or lay to. 

Dick. This crew's dissatisfied; this crew has its rights like 
other crews; and by your own rules, I take it we can talk 
together. I ax your pardon, sir, acknowledging you to 
be cap ting at this present; but I claim my right and 
steps outside for a council. [Goes out] 

One of the Men. [Saluting, follows] According to 
rules. 

Morgan. Foc's'le' council. 

All march out. Jim and Silver are left alone. 

Silver. [Beckons to Jim. Both sit doivn] Now look you 
here, Jim Hawkins, you 're within half a plank of death, 
and what 's a long sight worse, of torture. They're going 
to throw me off. But you mark, I stand by you through 
thick and thin. I didn't mean to; no, not till you spoke 
up. I was about desperate to lose that much blunt, 
and be hanged into the bargain. But I see you was the 
right sort. I says to myself: "You stand by Hawkins, 
John, and Hawkins '11 stand by you. You're his last 
card, and by the living thunder, John, he's yours! 
Back to back, says I. You save your witness and he'll 
save your neck." 

Jim. You mean all is lost? 

Silver. Ay, by gum, I do! Ship gone, neck gone — that's 
the size of it. Once I looked into that bay, Jim Hawkins, 
and seen no schooner — well I'm tough, but I gave out. 
As for that lot and their council, mark me, they're 
outright fools and cowards. I'll save your life — if so be 
as I can — from them. But see here, Jim — tit for tat — 
you save Long John from swinging. 

Jim. What I can do, that I'll do. 

Silver. It's a bargain! You speak up plucky, and, by 
thunder! I've a chance. [Hobbles to torch to light pipe 



First Year] Treasure Island 13 

again] Understand me, Jim, — I've a head on my 
shoulders, I have. I know you've got that ship safe 
somewheres. How you done it I don't know. I ask no 
questions, nor I won't let others. I know when a game's 
up, I do; and I know a lad that's staunch! [Drawing 
brandy from the cash into a tin cup] Will you taste, 
messmate? [Jim shakes his head] Well, I'll take a 
drain myself, Jim. I need a caulker, for there 's trouble 
on hand. And talking o' trouble, why did the doctor 
give me the chart, Jim? 

Jim. [Astonished] Give you the chart! 

Silver. Ay, that he did! And there's something under 
that, no doubt — bad or good. 

Takes another swallow of brandy as he hears the men 
returning. 

Jim. [Looking out of a loophole] Here they come ! 
Returns to former position. 

Silver. Well, let 'em come, lad — let 'em come. I've 
still a shot in my locker! [The men stand huddled 
inside the door; then push one of their number forward. 
He advances slowly, awkwardly, holding closed right 
hand in front of him] Step up, lad — I won't eat you. 
Hand it over, lubber. I know the rules, I do; I won't 
hurt a depytation. 

The man slips something into Silver's hand, and 
slinks back hastily to the group. 

Silver. [Looks at what he holds in his hand] The black 
spot! I thought so. Where might you have got the 
paper? Why, hillo! Look here, now; this ain't lucky! 
You've gone and cut this out of a Bible. What fool's 
cut a Bible? 

Morgan. [To men] Ah, there! there! Wot did I say? 
No good '11 come o' that, I said. 

Silver. Well, you've about fixed it now, among you. 



14 Dramatization [First Year 

You'll all swing now, I reckon. What soft-headed 
lubber had a Bible? 

One of Men. It was Dick. 

Silver. Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers. 
He's seen his slice of luck, has Dick. 

George. Belay that talk, John Silver. This crew has 
tipped you the black spot in full council, as in dooty 
bound; just you turn it over, as in dooty bound, and see 
what's wrote there. Then you can talk. 

Silver. Thanky, George. You always was brisk for busi- 
ness, and has the rules by heart, George, as I'm pleased 
to see. Well, what is it, anyway? Ah! "Deposed" — 
that's it, is it? Very pretty wrote, to be sure; like print, 
I swear. Your hand o' write, George? W T hy, you was 
gettin' quite a leadin' man in this here crew. You'll be 
cap'n next, I shouldn't wonder. Just oblige me with 
that light again, will you? This pipe don't draw. 

George. Come, now, you don't fool this crew no more. 
You're a funny man, by your account; but you're over 
now, and you'll maybe step down off that barrel and 
help vote. 

Silver. [Contemptuously] I thought you said you knowed 
the rules. Leastways if you don't, I do; and I 
wait here — and I'm still your cap'n, mind — till you 
outs with your grievances, and I reply; in the mean- 
time, your black spot ain't worth a biscuit. After 
that, we'll see. 

George. Oh, you don't be under no kind of apprehen- 
sion; we're all square, we are. First, you've made a 
hash of this cruise. Second, you let the enemy out o' 
this here trap for nothing. Why did they want out? 
I dunno; but its pretty plain they wanted it. Third, 
you wouldn't let us go at them upon the march. Oh, 
we see through you, John Silver; you want to play 



First Year] Treasure Island 15 

booty; that's what's wrong with you. And then, 
fourth, there's this here boy. 

Silver. [Quietly] Is that all? 

George. Enough, too. We'll all swing and sun-dry for 
your bungling. 

Silver. Well, now, look here, I '11 answer these four p 'ints ; 
one after another I'll answer 'em. I made a hash o' 
this cruise, did I? Well, now, you all know what I 
wanted; and you all know, if that had been done, that 
we'd a' been aboard the Hispaniola this night as ever 
was, every man of us alive, and fit, and full of good 
plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold of her, by thun- 
der! Well, who crossed me? Who forced my hand, as 
was the lawful cap'n? Who tipped me the black spot 
the day we landed, and began this dance? Ah, it's a 
fine dance — I'm with you there — and looks mighty like 
a hornpipe in a rope 's end at Execution Dock by London 
town, it does. But who done it? Why, it was Ander- 
son, and Hands, and you, George Merry! And you're 
the last above board of that same meddling crew; and 
you have the Davy Jones's insolence to up and stand for 
cap'n over me — you, that sunk the lot of us! By the 
powers! but this tops the stiff est yarn to nothing. 
[George and the rest look at each other, showing that Silver's 
words have made an impression on them] That's for 
number one. [Wiping his brow] Why, I give you my 
word, I'm sick to speak to you. You've neither sense 
nor memory, and I leave it to fancy where your mothers 
was that let you come to sea. Sea! Gentlemen o' 
fortune ! I reckon tailors is your trade. 

Morgan. Go on, John. Speak up to the others! 

Silver. Ah, the others! They're a nice lot, ain't they? 
You say this cruise is bungled. Ah! by gum, if you 
could understand how bad it's bungled, you would see! 



16 Dramatization 



[First Year 



We're that near the gibbet, that my neck's stiff with 
thinking on it. [Men shudder. Some involuntarily feel 
of their necks] Now that 's about where we are, thanks 
to you fools! 

Jim, eagerly listening, makes a noise, drawing to him- 
self the attention of the men. 

George. [Sullenly] The boy! 

Silver. If you want to know about number four, and 

that boy, why, shiver my timbers! Isn't he a hostage? 

Kill a hostage ! No, not us ; he might be our last chance ! 

The men mutter, and confer. Jim steps back, relieved. 

Morgan. Why wouldn't you let us go at 'em on the march? 

Silver. Number three, eh? Well, there's a deal to say 
to number three ! Maybe you don 't count it nothing to 
have a real college doctor come to see you everyday. You, 
John, with your head broke — or you, George Merry, with 
your ague fits, and your eyes, this very minute, the color 
of lemon peel ! And maybe you didn 't know there was a 
consort coming, either? [Men look at each other in surprise] 
But there is, — and not so long till then. And we'll see 
who'll be glad to have a hostage when it come to that. 

George. [Still sullen, but not so bold] Hostage! We had 
'em all in our power. Why — 

Silver. [Interrupting] I've kept number two till the 
last. I made a bargain — well, you came crawling on 
your knees to me to make it — you was that down- 
hearted — [scornfully] and you'd have starved, too, if I 
hadn't — but that 's a trifle ! You look here — that 's why ! 
He takes from his pocket a yellow paper, unrolls it, and 
throws it dramatically upon the floor. Jim starts forward. 
The men leap upon it. 

Jim. [Aside] The chart! What could the doctor have 
meant by this! 

Themen pass it back and forth, tearing it from one another. 



First Year] Treasure Island 17 

George. The gold is ours, men! 

Morgan. That's Flint, sure enough, — J. F. 

John. And a score below, with a clove hitch to it; so he 
done ever! 

George. But how are we to get away with it, and us no ship ? 

Silver. [Springing up suddenly, and supporting himself 
with a hand against the wall] Now, I give you warning, 
George. One more word of your sauce, and I '11 call you 
down and fight you. How? Why, how do I know? 
You had ought to tell me that — you and the rest, that 
lost me my schooner, with your interference, burn you! 
But not you, you can't; you ain't got the invention of 
a cockroach. But civil you can speak, and shall, George 
Merry, you may lay to that. 

Morgan. That's fair enow. 

Silver. Fair! I reckon so. You lost the ship; I found 
the treasure. Who's the better man at that? And now 
I resign, by thunder! Elect whom you please to be 
your cap'n now; I'm done with it. 

All of the men. Silver! Barbecue forever! Barbecue for 
cap 'n ! 

Seizing cups and filling them, they drink to Silver, as 
the curtain goes down. 

Scene II 

The Way Out 
Characters : 
Dr. Livesey. 
Jim. 
Silver, etc. 

The place is the same as for Scene I. 
The time is early morning — the light dim. The curtain 
goes up on the sleeping camp — Jim, waking. 



18 Dramatization [First Year 

Doctor Livesey. [From behind the scenes] Block-house, 
a-hoy! Block-house, a-hoy! 

Jim. [Wide-awake — joyously, but remaining in shadow] 
The Doctor! 

Others jump from couches in haste; Dr. Livesey enters. 

Silver. You, doctor! Top o' the morning to you, sir! 
Bright and early, to be sure; and it's the early bird that 
get's the rations. George, shake up your timbers, son, 
and welcome Dr. Livesey. All a-doin' well, your pa- 
tients was — all well and merry! [Standing with crutch 
under his arm, one hand on the wall] We've quite a 
surprise for you, too, sir. We've a little stranger here — 
he! he! A noo boarder and lodger, sir, and looking fit 
and taut as a fiddle; slep' like a supercargo, he did, 
right alongside of John — stem to stem we was, all night. 
[Drawing Jim into light] 

Doctor. Jim! [For a minute dumb with astonishment] 

Silver. The very same Jim as ever. 

Doctor. [Nodding grimly at Jim, and passing to the group 
of men at the rear] Well, well, duty first and pleasure 
afterward, as you might have said yourself, Silver. Let us 
overhaul these patients of yours. [To John] You're doing 
well, my friend, and if ever any person had a close shave, it 
was you; your head must be as hard as iron. [To George] 
W 7 ell, George, how goes it? You're a pretty color, cer- 
tainly; why your liver, man, is upside down. Did you 
take that medicine? Did he take that medicine, men? 

Morgan. Ay, ay, sir, he took it sure enough. 

Doctor. [In Jiis pleasantest manner] Since I am muti- 
neers' doctor, or prison doctor as I prefer to call it, — 
I make it a point of honor not to lose a man for King 
George and the gallows ! 

The rogues look at each other, but remain silent. 

One of the Men. Dick don't feel well, sir. 



First Year] Treasure Island 19 

Doctor. Don't he? Well, step up here, Dick, and let 
me see your tongue. [Dick obeys] No, I should be sur- 
prised if he did. Another fever! 

Morgan. Ah, there, that corned of sp 'iling Bibles. 

Doctor. That corned — as you call it — of not having sense 
enough to know honest air from poison! Camp in a 
bog, would you? Silver, I'm surprised at you! [Gives 
Dick medicine] Well, that's done for today. And now 
I should wish to have a talk with that boy, please. [Nod- 
ding carelessly in Jim's direction] 

George. [Who has been in the meantime taking medicine 
with much sputtering and a wry face, turning suddenly] 
No! 

Silver. [To the men; striking barrel with open hand] Sil- 
ence ! [Pleasantly to the Doctor] Doctor, I was thinking 
of that, knowing as how you had a fancy for the boy. 
We're all humbly grateful for your kindness, and, as 
you see, puts faith in you, and takes the drugs down 
like that much grog. And I take it I've found a way 
as '11 suit all. Hawkins, will you give me your word of 
honor as a young gentleman — for a young gentleman 
you are, though poor born — your word of honor not to 
slip your cable? 

Jim. [Haughtily] You may depend upon me — I pledge 
my word as a gentleman. 

Silver. Then, Doctor, we'll just step outside, and leave 
you and the boy to yarn on the inside. Come men! 

The men mutter and look back disapprovingly, but 
follow Silver, leaving the Doctor and Jim alone. Jim watches 
them through a loophole until he knows they are far enough 
away not to hear their conversation. 

Doctor. So, Jim, here you are — [Silver re-enters cautiously] 
Well, Silver, I thought Jim and I were to hold a private 
council. 



20 Dramatization [First Year 

Silver. Sh! Doctor, I've just a minute — I made an 
excuse to return, but they'll suspect, if I'm away 
long. [Rapidly and excitedly] You'll make a note 
of this here, also, doctor, and the boy '11 tell you 
how I saved his life, and were deposed for it, too, and 
you may lay to that. Doctor, when a man's steering 
as near to the wind as me — playing chuck-farthing 
with the last breath in his body, like — you wouldn't 
think it too much, mayhap, to give him one good 
word! You'll please bear in mind it's not my life 
only now — it's that boy's into the bargain; and you'll 
speak me fair, doctor, and give me a bit o' hope to go 
on, for the sake of mercy. 

Doctor. Why, John, you're not afraid? 

Silver. Doctor, I'm no coward; no, not I — not so much! 
[Snapping his fingers] If I was I wouldn't say it. But 
I'll own up fairly, I've the shakes upon me for the gal- 
lows. You're a good man and a true; I never seen a 
better man! And you'll not forget what I done good, 
not any more than you'll forget the bad, I know. And 
I step outside and leave you and Jim alone. And you'll 
put that down for me, too, for it 's a long stretch, is that ! 

Doctor. Ay! Ay! Silver. 

Silver hastens out, leaving the Doctor and Jim alone 
again. 

Doctor. So, Jim, here you are ! As you have brewed, so 
shall you drink, my boy. Heaven knows I cannot find 
it in my heart to blame you; but this much I will say, 
be it kind or unkind : when Captain Smollett was well, 
you dared not have gone off; and when he was ill, and 
couldn't help it, by George, it was downright cowardly! 

Jim. [Appealingly] Doctor, you might spare me. I have 
blamed myself enough; my life's forfeit anyway, and 
I should have been dead by now, if Silver hadn't stood for 



First Year] Treasure Island %\ 

me; and, doctor, believe this, I can die — and I dare say 
I deserve it — but what I fear is torture. If they come 
to torture me — 

Doctor. [In a changed voice] Jim, I can't have this! 
Whip over, and we'll run for it. [Pointing to opposite 
direction from the one taken by the men] The block-house 
will shelter us from view — and — 

Jim. [Interrupting] Doctor, I passed my word. 

Doctor. I know, I know. We can 't help that, Jim, now. 
I'll take it on my shoulders — one jump, and we're 
out, and we '11 run like antelopes ! 

Jim. No, you know right well you wouldn't do the thing 
yourself. No more will I. Silver trusted me, and here I 
stay ! But doctor, you did not let me finish. If they come 
to torture me, I might let slip a word of where the ship is, 
for I got the ship, part by luck and part by risking. 

Doctor. The ship! You got the ship? 

Jim. Yes. And she lies in the North Inlet, on the southern 
beach, and just below high water. 

Doctor. There 's no time now to tell me how you worked 
that miracle. Heaven send there be time later on! 
But there is a kind of fate in this, my boy. Every 
step, it 's you that saves our lives; and do you suppose by 
any chance that we are going to let you lose yours? 
You found out the plot; you found Ben Gunn — the best 
deed that ever you did, or will do, though you live to 
ninety. Oh, by Jupiter, and talking of Ben Gunn! — 
why this is the mischief in person. [Slight noise out- 
side. They listen. The Doctor walks toward loophole and 
calls] Silver! Silver! [Enter Silver] Don't you be in 
any great hurry after that treasure. 

Silver. Why, sir, I do my possible, which that ain't. I 
can only, asking your pardon, save my life and the boy 's 
by seeking for that treasure; and you may lay to that. 



22 Dramatization [First Year 

Doctor. Well, Silver, if that is so, I'll go one step farther; 
look out for squalls when you find it! 

Silver. Sir, as between man and man, that's too much 
and too little. What you're after, why you left the 
block-house, w hy you given me that there chart, I don 't 
know, now, do I? And yet I done your bidding with 
my eyes shut and never a word of hope! But no, this 
here's too much. If you won't tell me what you mean 
plain out, just say so, and I'll leave the helm. 

Doctor. No, I've no right to say more; it's not my 
secret, you see, Silver, or, I give you my word, I'd tell 
it to you. But I'll go as far with you as I dare go, and 
a step beyond ; for I '11 have my wig sorted by the captain, 
or I'm mistaken! And first, I'll give you a bit of hope: 
Silver, if we both get alive out of this wolf-trap, I'll do 
my best to save you, short of perjury. 

Silver. [With radiant face] You couldn't say more, sir, 
not if you was my mother. 

Doctor. Well, that's my first concession. My second, 
is a piece of advice. Keep the boy close beside you, 
and when you need help, halloo. I 'm off to seek it for 
you! Good bye, Jim. [Shakes hands with Jim, nods to 
Silver, then goes out] 

Silver. [To Jim] Jim, if I saved your life, you saved 
mine, and I'll not forget it. I was peeking through the 
loophole, when the doctor asked you to run. And I 
heard you say "No." Then I went away. This is the 
first glint of hope I've had since the attack failed, and 
I owe it to you. And now, Jim, we're to go in for this 
here treasure-hunting, with sealed orders, too, and I 
don't like it; and you and me must stick close, back 
to back like, and we'll save our necks in spite o' fate 
and fortune. But sh! Here come the men! 
Curtain goes down as the men enter. 



First Year] Ivanhoe 23 



IVANHOE 

Sir Walter Scott 

PREFATORY NOTE 

Chap, xi is the basis for the first episode from Ivanhoe. The dra- 
matic adaptation of this chapter follows the original very closely. The 
dialogue remains practically unchanged, and the details for stage setting 
and appropriate action are taken bodily from Scott's narrative. 

The fight in this scene becomes most effective by the preliminary 
twirling of the staves, (see stage directions, page 28), for which boys 
may be readily trained. The actual combat should be reduced to two 
or three passes. It has been found by experience that the apparent 
difficulties in the way of presenting such a scene, quickly disappear in 
working it out by assigning definite positions and actions to the com- 
batants. 

The second episode includes parts of chaps, xvi, xvii, and xx. In the 
dramatization of these chapters the scene remains unchanged. The 
action throughout occurs within the cell of the Clerk of Copmanhurst. 
This necessitates slight changes here and there. The opening situation 
is suggested by the paragraph beginning: Accordingly, the knight took 
no time to consider minutely the particulars which we have detailed, etc. 
The Knight's first speech and a few others in the course of the dialogue 
that ensues necessarily are interpolations. The songs are sung without 
the accompaniment of the harp, on account of the difficulty of obtaining 
such an instrument. The old song, The hottest horse will oft be cool, 
is taken from the heading of chap, xxvi and introduced into the revels 
of the two jolly companions, and the drinking song, Come, trowl the 
brown bowl to me, found in chap, xx, is sung just as the merry-makers 
are disturbed by the loud knocking of Locksley. 

The action of chap, xx is taken up at the point where Locksley, 
Wamba, and Gurth seek admittance to the holy clerk's cell. The 
paragraph beginning: While they were thus speaking, Locksley' s loud 
and repeated knocks had at length disturbed the anchorite and his guest, 
suggests the situation. Throughout this chapter the changes made are 
very slight and are of the character of those previously indicated. 

For suggestions for the incidental music see Bibliography, (p. 64.) 



24 Dramatization [First Year 

GURTH AND THE OUTLAWS 

Characters : 

Gurth. 

The Captain of the Outlaws and Three Other Outlaws. 

The scene represents a forest; in the rear, a thickly wooded 
path; toward the front, a clear space. Gurth is discovered 
walking quickly down the path. Suddenly four men spring 
out of the trees upon him. They have short swords by 
their sides and quarter-staves in their hands; all wear visors. 
One of the men carries a lantern with light concealed. The 
time is twilight. The light on the stage is dim. 

The Captain. Surrender your charge; we are the 
deliverers of the commonwealth, who ease every man 
of his burden. 

Gurth. [In a surly manner] You should not ease me of 
mine so lightly, had I it but in my power to give three 
strokes in its defence. 

The Captain. We shall see that presently. [To his com- 
panions] Bring along the knave. I see he would have 
his head broken as well as his purse cut, and so be let 
blood in two veins at once. 

They drag him roughly into the open. 

First Outlaw. What money hast thou, churl? 

Gurth. [Doggedly] Thirty zecchins of my own property. 

Second Outlaw. A forfeit — a forfeit! A Saxon hath 
thirty zecchins, and returns sober from a village! An 
undeniable and unredeemable forfeit of all he hath about 
him. 

Gurth. I hoarded it to purchase my freedom. 

Third Outlaw. Thou art a fool. Three quarts of 
double ale had rendered thee as free as thy master, ay, 
and freer too, if he be a Saxon like thyself. 



First Year] 



Ivanhoe %5 



Gurth. A sad truth; but if these same thirty zecchins 
will buy my freedom from you, unloose my hands and I 
will pay them to you. 

The Captain. Hold, this bag which thou bearest, as I can 
feel through thy cloak, contains more coin than thou hast 
told us of. 

Gurth. It is the good knight my master's, of which, 
assuredly, I would not have spoken a word, had you been 
satisfied with working your will upon mine own property. 

The Captain. Thou art an honest fellow, I warrant thee; 
and we worship not St. Nicholas so devoutly but what 
thy thirty zecchins may yet escape, if thou deal up- 
rightly with us. Meantime, render up thy trust for 
the time. [He takes from Gurth' s breast a well-filled purse. 
Then he places Gurth in the hands of two of the band] Who 
is thy master? 

Gurth. The Disinherited Knight. 

The Captain. Whose good lance won the prize in today's 
tourney? What is his name and lineage? 

Gurth. It is his pleasure that they be concealed; and 
from me, assuredly, you will learn nought of them. 

The Captain. What is thine own name and lineage? 

Gurth. To tell that, might reveal my master's. 

The Captain. Thou art a saucy groom, but of that 
anon. How comes thy master by this gold? is it of 
his inheritance, or by what means hath it accrued to 
him? 

Gurth. By his good lance. These bags contain the 
ransom of four good horses, and four good suits of 
armor. 

The Captain. How much is there? 

Gurth. Two hundred zecchins. 

The Captain. Only two hundred zecchins ! Your master 
hath dealt liberally by the vanquished, and put them to a 



Dramatization 



[First Year 



cheap ransom. The ransom of four vanquished knights 

in today's tourney. [Pausing] And where is the fifth? 

The armor and horse of the Templar Brian de Bois- 

Guilbert — at what ransom were they held? Thou seest 

thou canst not deceive me. 
Gurth. My master will take nought from the Templar 

save his life's-blood. They are on terms of mortal 

defiance, and cannot hold courteous intercourse together. 
The Captain. Indeed! [Pausing] And what wert thou 

now doing at Ashby with such a charge in thy custody? 
Gurth. I went thither to render to Isaac the Jew of York 

the price of a suit of armor with which he fitted my 

master for this tournament. 
The Captain. And how much didst thou pay to Isaac? 

Methinks to judge by weight, there is still two hundred 

zecchins in this pouch. 
Gurth. I paid to Isaac eighty zecchins, and he restored 

me a hundred in lieu thereof. 
The Outlaws. [Excitedly] How! what! 
The Captain. Thou tellest improbable lies ! 
Gurth. What I tell you is as true as the moon is in heaven. 

You will find the just sum in a silken purse within the 

leathern pouch, and separate from the rest of the gold. 
The Captain. Bethink thee, man, thou speakest of Isaac 

of York, a man as unapt to restore gold as the dry 

sand of his deserts to return the cup of water which 

the pilgrim spills upon them. 
Gurth. It is, however, as I say. 
The Captain. A light instantly! I will examine this 

said purse, and see if it be as this fellow says. 

The man with the lantern steps forward and uncovers 
the light. The Captain proceeds to examine the purse. 
The two who have hold of Gurth relax their grasp while they 
stretch their necks to watch. By a sudden exertion of strength 



First Year] Ivanhoe 27 

and activity, Gurth shakes himself free of their hold. He 
wrenches a quarter-staff from one of the robbers, strikes 
down the Captain and seizes the purse. The thieves, how- 
ever, recapture Gurth and again secure the bag. 

The Captain. [Getting up] Knave! thou hast broken 
my head, and with other men of our sort thou wouldst 
fare the worse for thy insolence. But thou shalt know 
thy fate instantly. First let us speak of thy master; 
the knight's matters must go before the squire's, accord- 
ing to the due order of chivalry. Stand thou fast in the 
meantime; if thou stir again, thou shalt have that 
will make thee quiet for thy life. Comrades ! [address- 
ing the outlaws] this purse is embroidered with Hebrew 
characters, and I well believe the yeoman's tale is 
true. The errant knight, his master, must needs 
pass us toll-free. He is too like ourselves for us to make 
booty of him, since dogs should not worry dogs where 
wolves and foxes are to be found in abundance. 

First Outlaw. [Contemptuously] Like us! I should like 
to hear how that is made good. 

The Captain. Why, thou fool, is he not poor and disin- 
herited as we are? Doth he not win his substance at the 
sword's point as we do? Hath he not beaten Front- 
de-Bceuf and Malvoisin, even as we would beat them 
if we could? Is he not the enemy to life and death of 
Brian de Bois Guilbert, whom we have so much reason 
to fear? And were all this otherwise, wouldst thou have 
us show a worse conscience than Isaac of York? 

First Outlaw. Nay, that were a shame. — And this 
insolent peasant — he too, I warrant me, is to be dis- 
missed scatheless? 

The Captain. Not if thou canst scathe him. — Here, 
fellow, [addressing Gurth] canst thou use the staff, that 
thou startst to it so readily? 



28 Dramatization [First Year 

Gurth. I think thou shouldst be best able to reply to 
that question. 

The Captain. Nay, by my troth, thou gavest me a round 
knock; do as much for this fellow, and thou shalt pass 
scot-free; and if thou dost not — why, by my faith, as 
thou art such a sturdy knave, I think I must pay thy 
ransom myself. [To the First Outlaw] Take thy staff, 
Miller, and keep thy head; [To the other Outlaws] and 
do you others let the fellow go, and give him a staff — 
there is light enough to lay on load by. 

The First Outlaid and Gurth, armed alike with quarter- 
staves, step for iv ard into the center of the open space. 

The Outlaws. [Laughing] Miller, beware ! 

First Outlaw. [Holding his quarter-staff in the center and 
flourishing it round his head. Boastfully] Come on 
churl, an thou darest : thou shalt feel the strength of a 
miller's thumb ! 

Gurth. [Undauntedly, making his weapon play round his 
head with equal dexterity] If thou be'st a miller, thou art 
doubly a thief, and I, as a true man, bid thee defiance. 

The two champions close together, and at first display 
great equality in strength, courage, and skill. The robbers 
laugh loudly at seeing the Miller so stoutly opposed. This 
vexes the Miller who loses his temper and strikes wildly. 
Gurth suddenly hurls his staff at the Miller's head. The 
Miller instantly measures his length upon the ground. 

The Outlaws. [Severally] Well and yeomanly done! — 
fair play and old England forever! — The Saxon has saved 
both his purse and his hide! The Miller has met his 
match. 

The Captain. [Stepping up to Gurth and addressing him] 
Thou mayst go thy ways, my friend, and [beckoning to 
two of the Outlaws] I will cause two of my comrades to 
guide thee by the best way to thy master's pavilion, 



First Year] 



Ivanhoe 29 



and to guard thee from night-walkers that might have 
less tender consciences than ours; for there is many 
one of them upon the amble in such a night as this. 
[Looking sternly at Gurth] Take heed, however; remember 
thou hast refused to tell thy name ; ask not after ours, nor 
endeavor to discover who or what we are, for, if thou 
makest such an attempt, thou wilt come by worse 
fortune than has yet befallen thee. 

Gurth. I thank thee, Captain. I will heed what thou 
sayest. As I have refused thee my name and the good 
knight, my master's, so I will not ask after thine. 

The Captain. Bethink thee, man. Keep secret what has 
this night befallen thee and thou shalt have no room to 
repent it; neglect what is now told thee and the Tower 
of London shall not protect thee against our revenge. 
And now good-night, my man ! 

Gurth. Good-night to you, kind sir. I shall remember 
your orders and trust that there is no offence in wishing 
you an honester trade. 

He leaves with the two Outlaws designated by the 
Captain as his guides. 

Curtain 

The Revels of the Black Knight and the Clerk 
of copmanhurst 



Characters : 

The Black Knight. Locksley. 

The Hermit, the Clerk Wamba. 

of Copmanhurst. Gurth. 



meagerly furnished. In the center is a rough-hewn table and 
two stools. At one side, on the floor, a bed of leaves; at the other. 



30 Dramatization [First Year 

a small table on which stand a crucifix rudely carved in oak, 
a missal (mass book) , and a twisted iron candlestick holding a 
lighted candle. In the rear is a rude fireplace, piled with 
logs. A dark curtain at the left conceals a cupboard or chest 
containing food and wine. In the corresponding position, 
right, a similar curtain conceals a closet containing weapons. 
The Hermit is discovered making ready for his evening meal. 
He is a large, strongly built man, dressed in a gray gown 
and hood, around his waist a rope girdle. As he places on 
the table a huge meat pie, a loud knock is heard at the door 
as if made with the butt of a lance. The Hermit does not 
answer. Instead, he goes to the cupboard or chest and takes 
out a jug of wine. Then he starts toward the table, but as 
the knocking continues, returns to the cupboard with the wine. 
As the knocking groivs louder and more insistent, he hastily 
removes the pie and hides it also in the cupboard. He then 
stands listening. 

The Knight. [Without] A poor wanderer craves admit- 
tance, worthy father. 

The Hermit. [In a hoarse voice] Pass on, whosoever thou 
art, and disturb not the servant of God and St. Dunstan 
in his evening devotions. 

The Knight. Worthy father, here is a poor wanderer 
bewildered in these woods, who gives thee the oppor- 
tunity of exercising thy charity and hospitality. 

The Hermit. Good brother, it has pleased Our Lady and 
St. Dunstan to destine me for the object of those virtues, 
instead of the exercise thereof. I have no provisions 
here which even a dog would share with me. 

The Knight. But how is it possible for me to find my way 
through such a wood as this, when darkness is coming 
on? I pray you, reverend father, as you are a Christian, 
to undo your door, and at least point out to me my road. 



First Year] 



Ivanhoe 31 



The Hermit. And I pray you, good Christian brother, to 
disturb me no more. You have already interrupted one 
pater, two aves, and a credo, which I, miserable sinner 
that I am, should, according to my vow, have said 
before moonrise. 

While talking he fetches from the chest a platter of 
parched pease and a large drinking can of water and places 
them on the table. Then he covers his head with his cowl, 
takes up his missal, and mumbles a Latin prayer. 

The Knight. The road — «- the road! give me directions 
for the road, if I am to expect no more from thee. 

The Hermit. The road is easy to hit. The path from the 
wood leads to a morass, and from thence to a ford, which, 
as the rains have abated, may now be passable. When 
thou hast crossed the ford, thou wilt take care of thy 
footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat precipitous, 
and the path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as 
I learn — for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel — 
given way in sundry places. Thou wilt then keep 
straight forward — 

The Knight. [Interrupting] A broken path — a precipice 
— a ford — and a morass! Sir Hermit, if you were the 
holiest that ever wore beard or told bead, you shall 
scarce prevail on me to hold this road tonight. I tell 
thee, that thou, who livest by the charity of the country — 
ill deserved as I doubt it is — hast no right to refuse 
shelter to the wayfarer when in distress. Either open 
the door quickly, or, by the rood, I will beat it down and 
make entry for myself. 

The Hermit. Friend wayfarer, be not importunate; if 
thou puttest me to use the carnal weapon in mine own 
defence, it will be e'en the worse for you. [Furious 
pounding on the door without is heard. The Hermit takes 
up the candlestick and approaches the door] Patience — 



32 Dramatization [First Year 

patience; spare thy strength, good traveler, and I will 
presently undo the door, though it may be, my doing 
so will be little to thy pleasure. [He opens the door and 
the stranger, an imposing figure in the full armor of a 
knight, enters}. Enter, friend wayfarer. The multitude 
of robbers and outlaws abroad in this land, who give no 
honor to Our Lady or St. Dunstan, nor to those holy 
men who spend life in their service, force me to be chary 
about admitting strangers to my cell. 

The Knight. [Looking around] The poverty of your cell, 
good father, should seem a sufficient defence against any 
risk of thieves. 

The Hermit. It would seem so, Sir Knight, and yet must 
I needs be careful. 

He puts the candlestick on the small table, goes to the 
fire, throws on a log, then places a stool at the side of the 
table facing the audience and beckons the Knight to do 
the same at the end. The Knight does his bidding and 
they seat themselves and gaze at each other with great gravity. 

The Knight. Reverend hermit, [looking fixedly at his host] 
were it not to interrupt your devout meditations, I 
would pray to know three things of your holiness; 
first, where I am to put my horse? secondly, what I can 
have for supper? thirdly, where I am to take up my 
couch for the night? 

The Hermit. I will reply to you with my finger, it being 
against my rule to speak by words where signs can 
answer the purpose. [Pointing to the door] Your stable is 
out there: your bed, there [pointing to the bed of leaves] 
and, [pointing to the platter of pease] your supper here. 

The Knight. Holy father, I thank you for your courtesy. 
Shall we now eat? 

The Hermit. After grace, Sir Knight. [Mumbles a Latin 
prayer] And now fall to. 






First Year] Ivankoe 33 

The Knight. [Rising]. First, by your leave — [He lays 
aside his helmet and corselet. The Hermit also rises and 
throws back his cowl. Then they both reseat themselves 
and begin to eat from the dish of pease.} 

The Hermit. A poor hermit's fare is no fit food for a 
weary traveler, Sir Knight. 

The Knight. [With difficulty masticating a mouthful of 
pease] By my sword, no. — Holy father, I beg some- 
what to drink; I can scarce swallow. 

The Hermit. [Placing before the Knight the large can] 
Here is water, Sir Knight, from the well of St. Dunstan, 
in which, betwixt sun and sun he baptized five hundred 
heathen Danes and Britons — blessed be his name! 

The Knight. It seems to me, reverend father, that the 
small morsels which you eat, together with this holy but 
somewhat thin beverage, have thriven with you marvel- 
ously. You appear a man more fit to win the ram at a 
wrestling-match, or the ring at a bout at quarter-staff, 
or the bucklers at a sword-play, than to linger out your 
time in this desolate wilderness, saying masses, and 
living upon parched pease and cold water. 

The Hermit. Sir Knight, your thoughts, like those of 
the ignorant laity, are according to the flesh. It has 
pleased Our Lady and my patron saint to bless the 
pittance to which I restrain myself. 

The Knight. Holy father, upon whose countenance it 
hath pleased Heaven to work such a miracle, permit a 
sinful layman to crave thy name? 

The Hermit. Thou mayst call me the Clerk of Copman- 
hurst, for so I am termed in these parts. They add, it 
is true, the epithet holy, but I stand not upon that as 
being unworthy of such addition. And now, valiant 
knight, may I pray ye for the name of my honorable 
guest? 



34 Dramatization [First Year 

The Knight. Truly, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst, men 
call me in these parts the Black Knight; many, sir, 
add to it the epithet of Sluggard, whereby I am no way 
ambitious to be distinguished. 

The Hermit. I see, Sir Sluggish Knight, that thou art a 
man of prudence and of counsel; and moreover, I see that 
my poor monastic fare likes thee not, accustomed, 
perhaps, as thou hast been to the license of courts and of 
camps, and the luxuries of cities; and now I bethink me, 
Sir Sluggard, that the charitable keeper of this forest- 
walk left me some food, which, being unfit for my use, the 
very recollection of it had escaped me amid my more 
weighty meditations. 

The Knight. I dare be sworn he did so; I was convinced 
that there was better food in the cell, Holy Clerk, since 
you first doffed your cowl. Your keeper is ever a jovial 
fellow; and none who beheld thy grinders contending 
with these pease, and thy throat flooded with this 
ungenial element, could see thee doomed to such horse- 
provender and horse-beverage [pointing to the provisions 
upon the table] and refrain from mending thy cheer. 
Let us see the keeper's bounty, therefore, without delay. 
The Hermit goes to his cupboard and brings forth the 
pie. He places it before his guest, who uses his poniard 
to cut it open and immediately falls to. 

The Knight. [After swallowing a goodly mouthful] How 
long is it since the good keeper has been here? 

The Hermit. About two months. 

The Knight. By the true Lord, everything in your 
hermitage is miraculous, Holy Clerk! for I would have 
been sworn that the fat buck which furnished this 
venison had been running on foot within the week. 

He continues to eat ravenously. The Hermit looks with 
dismay at the inroads his guest is making. 



First Year] 



Ivanhoe 35 



The Knight. [Stopping suddenly] I have been in Pales- 
tine, Sir Clerk, and I bethink me it is a custom there that 
every host who entertains a guest shall assure him of the 
wholesomeness of his food by partaking of it along 
with him. Far be it from me to suspect so holy 
a man of aught inhospitable, nevertheless, I will be 
highly bound to you would you comply with this 
Eastern custom. 

The Hermit. To ease your unnecessary scruples, Sir 
Knight, I will for once depart from my rule. [He 
begins to eat greedily] 

The Knight. Holy Clerk, I would gage my good horse 
against a zecchin, that that same honest keeper to 
whom we are obliged for the venison has left thee a 
stoup of wine with this noble pasty. This would be a 
circumstance, doubtless, totally unworthy to dwell in the 
memory of so rigid an anchorite; yet, I think, were you 
to search yonder crypt once more, you would find that 
I am right in my conjecture. 

The Hermit smiles, goes to the cupboard, and returns 
with a leather bottle, and two large drinking cups. 

The Hermit. [Filling both cups] Waes hael, Sir Sluggish 
Knight! 

The Knight. Drinc hael, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst! 
[They empty their cups] Holy Clerk, I cannot but marvel 
that a man possessed of such thews and sinews as thine, 
and who therewithal shows the talent of so goodly a 
trencherman, should think of abiding by himself in this 
wilderness. In my judgment, you are fitter to keep a castle 
or a fort, eating of the fat and drinking of the strong, than 
to live here upon pulse and water, or even upon the 
charity of the keeper. At least, were I as thou, I should 
find myself both disport and plenty out of the king's deer. 
There is many a goodly herd in these forests, and a buck 



36 Dramatization [First year 

will never be missed that goes to the use of St. Dunstan's 
chaplain. 

The Hermit. Sir Sluggish Knight, these are dangerous 
words, and I pray you to forbear them. I am true 
hermit to the king and law, and were I to spoil my 
liege's game, I should be sure of the prison, and, an my 
gown saved me not, were in some peril of hanging. 

The Knight. Nevertheless, were I as thou, I would take 
my walk by moonlight, when foresters and keepers were 
warm in bed, and ever and anon — as I pattered my 
prayers — I would let fly a shaft among the herds of 
deer that feed in the glades. Resolve me, Holy Clerk, 
hast thou never practised such a pastime? 

The Hermit. Friend Sluggard, thou hast seen all that can 
concern thee of my housekeeping, and something more 
than he deserves who takes up his quarters by violence. 
Credit me, it is better to enjoy the good which God 
sends thee, than to be impertinently curious how it 
comes. Fill thy cup, and welcome; and do not, I pray 
thee, by further impertinent inquiries, put me to show 
that thou couldst hardly have made good thy lodging 
had I been earnest to oppose thee. 

The Knight. By my faith, thou makest me more curious 
than ever ! Thou art the most mysterious hermit I ever 
met ; and I will know more of thee ere we part. As for thy 
threats, know, holy man, thou speakest to one whose 
trade it is to find out danger wherever it is to be met with. 

The Hermit. Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee, 
respecting thy valor much, but deeming wondrous 
slightly of thy discretion. If thou wilt take equal arms 
with me, I will give thee, in all friendship and brotherly 
love, such sufficing penance and complete absolution 
that thou shalt not for the next twelve months sin the 
sin of excess of curiosity. 



First Year] 



Ivanhoe 37 



The Knight. Name thy weapons, Holy Clerk. 

The Hermit. [Rising and going to the other cupboard] 
There is none, from the scissors of Delilah, and the 
tenpenny nail of Jael, to the scimitar of Goliath, at which 
I am not a match for thee. But, if I am to make the 
election, what sayst thou, good friend, to these trinkets? 
He opens the cupboard and takes out a couple of broad- 
swords and bucklers. In the cupboard can be seen two 
or three longbows, a crossbow, a bundle of bolts for the 
latter, and a half dozen sheaves of arrows for the former. 

The Knight. [Who has followed the Hermit] I promise 
thee, brother Clerk, I will ask thee no more offensive 
questions. The contents of that cupboard are an 
answer to all my inquiries. 

The Hermit replaces the weapons and closes the cup- 
board door. Then they both return to their seats. 

The Hermit. I hope, Sir Knight, thou hast given no 
good reason for thy surname of the Sluggard. I do 
promise thee, I suspect thee grievously. Nevertheless, 
thou art my guest, and I will not put thy manhood to 
the proof without thine own free will. Fill thy cup; let 
us drink, sing, and be merry. If thou knowest ever a 
good lay, thou shalt be welcome to a nook of pasty at 
Copmanhurst so long as I serve the chapel of St. 
Dunstan, which, please God, shall be till I change my 
gray covering for one of green turf. But come, fill 
a flagon! A song! Friend, I drink to thy successful 
performance! [They drink] 

The Knight. Shall it be a French lay or a ballad in vulgar 
English? 

The Hermit. A ballad — a ballad. Downright English 
am I, Sir Knight, and downright English was my patron 
St. Dunstan; and downright English alone shall be sung 
in this cell. 



38 Dramatization [First Year 

The Knight. I will assay then, a ballad composed by a 
Saxon gleeman, whom I knew in Holy Land. 

He sings. The Hermit joins in the singing from time 
to time. 

The Crusader s Return, 

High deeds achieved of knightly fame, 
From Palestine the champion came; 
The cross upon his shoidders borne 
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn. 
Each dint upon his batter d shield 
Was token of a foughten field; 
And thus, beneath his lady's bower, 
He sung, as fell the twilight hour: 

"Joy to the fair! — thy knight behold, 
Return' d from yonder land of gold; 
No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need 
Save his good arms and battle-steed; 
His spurs, to dash against a foe, 
His lance and sword to lay him low; 
Such all the trophies of his toil, 
Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile! 

"Joy to the fair! whose constant knight 
Her favor fired to feats of might; 
Unnoted shall she not remain, 
Where meet the bright and noble train; 
Minstrel shall sing and herald tell: 
' Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 
' Tis she for whose bright eyes was won 
The listed field at Askalon! 



First Year] Ivanhoe 39 

"'Note well her smile! — it edged the blade 
Which fifty wives to widows made, 
When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell, 
Iconium's turban' 'd Soldan fell. 
Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow 
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow? 
Twines not of them one golden thread, 
But for its sake a Paynim bled' 

"Joy to the fair! my name unknown, 
Each deed, and all its praise thine own; 
Then oh! unbar this churlish gate, 
The night dew falls, the hour is late 
Inured to Syria's glowing breath, 
I feel the north breeze chill as death; 
Let grateful love quell maiden shame 
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame." 

The Hermit. By the rood, a good song and well sung withal. 
And yet I think my Saxon countrymen had herded long 
enough with the Normans to fall into the tone of their 
melancholy ditties. What took the honest knight from 
home? or what could he expect but to find his mistress 
agreeably engaged with a rival on his return, and his 
serenade, as they call it, as little regarded as the cater- 
wauling of a cat in the gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight, 
I drink this cup to thee, to the success of all true lovers. 
[He drains his cup again but the Knight, before drinking, 
pours water into his cup. — As he observes this action of the 
Knight] I fear you are none. 

The Knight. Why, did you not tell me that this water 
was from the well of your blessed patron, St. Dunstan? 

The Hermit. Ay, truly, and many a hundred of pagans 
did he baptize there, but I never heard that he drank any 



40 Dramatization [First Year 

of it. Everything should be put to its proper use in 
this world. St. Dunstan knew, as well as any one, the 
prerogatives of a jovial friar. — Now hark, Sir Knight, 
to my song, The Barefooted Friar. 

Sings to the tune of an old English ditty. 

The Barefooted Friar 

I '11 give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain, 
To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain; 
But ne 'er shall you find, should you search till you tire, 
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career, 

And is brought home at evensong prick' t through with a spear; 

I confess him in haste — for his lady desires 

No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's. 

Your monarch! Pshaw! many a prince has been known 

To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown; 

But which of us e'er felt the idle desire 

To exchange for a crown the gray hood of a Friar! 

The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone, 
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own; 
He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires, 
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's. 

He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes 
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums; 
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire, 
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar. 

He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hoi, 
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot, 
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire, 
Ere he lacked a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar. 



First Year] 



Ivanhoe 41 



The Knight. By my troth, thou hast sung well and lus- 
tily, and in high praise of thine order. 

The Hermit. And by St. Dunstan, I serve the duty of 
my chapel duly and truly. Two masses daily , morning and 
evening, primes, noons, and vespers, aves, credos, paters — 

The Knight. Excepting moonlight nights, when the 
venison is in season! 

The Hermit. Exceptis excipiendis, as our old abbot 
taught me to say when impertinent laymen should ask 
me if I kept every punctilio of mine order. Come, 
another song, Sir Knight. 
He sings. 

The hottest horse will oft be cool, 

The dullest will show fire; 
The friar will often play the fool, 

The fool will play the friar. 

A loud knock sounds at the door, but the Hermit and the 
Knight pay no attention to it. 
The Knight. Well sung, jolly friar. How like you this? 
He sings. 

Come, trowl the brown bowl to me, 

Bully boy, bully boy, 
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me, 

Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking, 
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me. 

The Hermit joins in at the last line and they sing it all over 
together. During the singing the knocking continues at inter- 
vals, finally becoming so insistent that the singers stop to listen. 
The Hermit. [With a grand flourish] By my beads, 
here come more benighted guests. I would not for my 
cowl that they found us in this goodly exercise. All men 
have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and there be those 



42 Dramatization [First Year 

malignant enough to construe the hospitable refreshment 
which I have been offering to you, a weary traveler, for 
the matter of three short hours, into sheer drunkenness, 
a vice alike alien to my profession and my disposition. 

The Knight. Base calumniators! I would I had the 
chastising of them. Nevertheless, Holy Clerk, it is true 
that all have their enemies; and there be those in this 
very land whom I would rather speak to through the 
bars of my helmet than barefaced. 

The Hermit. [Rising] Get thine iron pot on thy head then, 
friend Sluggard, as quickly as thy nature will permit, while 
I remove these pewter flagons, whose late contents run 
strangely in mine own pate; and to drown the clatter 
strike into the tune which thou hearest me sing. It is no 
matter for the words; I scarce know them myself. 

He strikes up a thundering "De Profundis Clamavi" 
under cover of which he removes the remains of their ban- 
quet: the Knight laughing heartily, and arming himself all 
the while, assists his host with his voice as his mirth 
permits. 

Locksley. [Without] What devil's matins are you after 
at this hour? 

The Hermit. Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveler! Wend 
on your way, in the name of God and St. Dunstan, and 
disturb not the devotions of me and my holy brother. 

Locksley. [Without] Mad priest, open to Locksley ! 

The Hermit. [To the Knight] All's safe — all's right. 

The Knight. But who is he? it imports me much to 
know. 

The Hermit. Who is he? I tell thee he is a friend. 

The Knight. But what friend? for he may be a friend 
to thee and none of mine. 

The Hermit. What friend! that, now, is one of the 
questions that is more easily asked than answered. 



First Year] Ivaflkoe 43 

What friend! why, he is now that I bethink me a little, 
the very same honest keeper I told thee of a while since. 
The knocking continues. 

The Knight. Ay, as honest a keeper as thou art a pious 
hermit, I doubt it not. But undo the door to him before 
he beat it from its hinges. 

The Hermit speedily unbolts the door and admits 
Locksley, Gurth, and Wamba. 

Locksley. Why, hermit, what boon companion hast thou 
here? 

The Hermit. A brother of our order; we have been at our 
orisons all night. 

Locksley. He is a monk of the church militant, I think, 
and there be more of them abroad. I tell thee, Friar, 
thou must lay down the rosary and take up the quarter- 
staff; we shall need every one of our merry men, whether 
clerk or layman. But [taking him aside] art thou 
mad? to give admittance to a knight thou dost not know? 
Hast thou forgot our articles? 

The Hermit. [Boldly] Not know him! I know him as 
well as the beggar knows his dish. 

Locksley. And what is his name, then? 

The Hermit. His name, — his name is Sir Anthony of 
Scrablestone ; as if I would drink with a man, and did 
not know his name ! 

Locksley. Thou hast been drinking more than enough, 
Friar, and, I fear, prating more than enough, too. 

The Knight. [Approaching them] .Good yeoman, be not 
wroth with my merry host. He did but afford me the 
hospitality which I would have compelled from him if 
he had refused it. 

The Hermit. [Excitedly] Thou compel! wait but till I 
have changed this gray gown for a green cassock, and if 
I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon thy pate, I 



44 Dramatization [First year 

am neither true clerk nor good woodsman. [He 

takes off his gown and appears in green hose and cassock. — 

To Wamba] I pray thee truss my points and thou 

shalt have a cup of sack for thy labor. 
Wamba. Gramercy for thy sack; but think'st thou it is 

lawful for me to aid you to transmew thyself from a 

holy hermit into a sinful forester? 
The Hermit. Never fear, I will but confess the sins of 

my green cloak to my gray friar's frock, and all shall 

be well again. 
Wamba. Amen! A broadcloth penitent should have a 

sackcloth confessor, and your frock may absolve my 

motley doublet into the bargain. 

As he talks, he assists in tying the laces of the 

Hermit's cassock. 
Locksley. [Leading the Knight a little apart] Deny it not, 

Sir Knight, you are he who decided the victory to the 

advantage of the English against the strangers on the 

second day of the tournament at x\shby. 
The Knight. And what follows if you guess truly, good 

yeoman? 
Locksley. I should in that case hold you a friend to the 

weaker party. 
The Knight. Such is the duty of a true knight, at least, 

and I would not willingly that there were reason to think 

otherwise of me. 
Locksley. But for my purpose, thou shouldst be as well 

a good Englishman as a good knight; for that which I 

have to speak of concerns, indeed, the duty of every 

honest man, but is more especially that of a true-born 

native of England. 
The Knight. You can speak to no one, to whom England, 

and the life of every Englishman, can be dearer than to me. 
Locksley. I would willingly believe so, for never had this 



First Year] 



Ivanhoe 45 



country such need to be supported by those who love 
her. Hear me, and I will tell thee of an enterprise, in 
which, if thou be 'st really that which thou seemest, thou 
mayst take an honorable part. A band of villains, in 
the disguise of better men than themselves, have made 
themselves master of the person of a noble Englishman, 
called Cedric the Saxon, together with his ward and his 
friend Athelstane of Coningsburgh, and have transported 
them to a castle in this forest, called Torquilstone. I 
ask of thee, as a good knight and a good Englishman, 
wilt thou aid in their rescue? 

The Knight. I am bound by my vow to do so, but I 
would willingly know who you are, who request my 
assistance in their behalf? 

Locksley. I am a nameless man; but I am the friend of 
my country, and of my country's friends. With this 
account of me you must for the present remain satisfied, 
the more especially since you yourself desire to continue 
unknown. Believe, however, that my word, when 
pledged, is as inviolate as if I wore golden spurs. 

The Knight. I willingly believe it; I have been accus- 
tomed to study men's countenances, and I can read in 
thine honesty and resolution. I will, therefore, ask thee 
no further questions, but aid thee in setting at freedom 
these oppressed captives; which done, I trust we shall 
part better acquainted and well satisfied with each other. 
They move away, continuing their conversation in whispers. 

Wamba. [To Gurth] So, we have got a new ally? I trust 
the valor of the knight will be truer metal than the 
religion of the hermit or the honesty of the yeoman; for 
this Locksley looks like a born deer-stealer, and the 
priest like a lusty hypocrite. 

Gurth. Hold thy peace, Wamba; it may all be as thou 
dost guess; but were the horned devil to rise and proffer 



46 Dramatization [First Year 

me his assistance to set at liberty Cedric and the Lady 
Rowena, I fear I should hardly have religion enough to 
refuse the foul fiend's offer, and bid him get behind me. 
The Hermit in the meantime has gone to the cupboard. 
He selects a sword and buckler, and a bow and quiver, with 
which he adorns himself, and finally takes a strong partizan 
which he places over his shoulder. He now steps forward, 
twirling his partizan around his head. 

The Hermit. Where be those false ravishers, who carry 
off wenches against their will? May the foul fiend fly 
off with me, if I am not man enough for a dozen of them. 

The Knight. [Laughing] Swearest thou, Holy Clerk? 

The Hermit. Clerk me no clerks; by St. George and the 
Dragon, I am no longer a shaveling than while my frock 
is on my back. When I am cased in my green cassock, 
I will drink, swear, and woo a lass, with any blythe 
forester in the West Riding. 

Locksley. Come on, Jack Priest, and be silent; thou art 
as noisy as a whole convent on a holy eve, when the 
Father Abbot has gone to bed. Come on you, too, my 
masters, tarry not to talk of it — I say, come on; we 
must collect all our forces, and few enough we shall have, if 
we are to storm the castle of Reginald Front-de-Bceuf. 

The Knight. [In great astonishment] What! is it Front- 
de-Bceuf, who has stopt on the king's highway the king's 
liege subjects? Is he turned thief and oppressor? 

Locksley. Oppressor he ever was. 

The Hermit. And for thief, I doubt if ever he were even 
half so honest a man as many a thief of my acquaintance. 

Locksley. Move on, priest, and be silent ; it were better you 
led the way to the place of rendezvous, than say what 
should be left unsaid, both in decency and prudence. 
They all move off as the curtain drops. 
Curtain 



First Year] Robin Hood Ballads 47 

ROBIN HOOD BALLADS 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The ballad is essentially dramatic; music and dance and dialogue 
are its elements. The early ballad was a song and a drama; it was 
intended to minister to the dramatic instinct of the folk. Hence, the 
ballad lends itself readily to dramatic adaptation. 

The two following dramatic adaptations are based on the ballads, 
Robin Hood and Little John and Robin Hood and Allin a Dale, as given 
in Gayley and Flaherty's, Poetry of the People, and are used by special 
permission of the publishers, Ginn and Company. In the dramati- 
zation, of the first, the scene opens with the meeting of Robin Hood 
and the Stranger. The situation is given in stanzas 6 and 7 of the 
ballad, but the meeting-place in the adaptation occurs on a forest path 
instead of on a bridge, for obvious reasons. The dialogue begins with 
stanza 7. It is often necessary to change indirect to direct discourse, 
to fill out lines from which omissions have been made, and to supply 
stanzas now and then, as for instance the stanza your life is so free, 
'tis the one life for me. At the end, a Robin Hood song is introduced to 
make merry the dance. The stage directions are based on the stanzas. 

Perhaps a word might be said about the fight that occurs in this 
adaptation. Care should be taken not to make it too prominent; and 
it should be brief; one or two passes with the staves sufficing. 

The second ballad is given in two scenes. In the first scene, Allin is 
seized by Little John and the Miller's Son and brought before 
Robin; he tells Robin of the loss of his bride, and Robin leaves in search 
of her. The opening situation is suggested by stanzas 2 and 5. Action 
begins with stanza 6 and continues through 14, closing with two stanzas 
interpolated for dramatic effect. 

In the second scene Robin, disguised as a minstrel, interrupts the 
wedding of the Knight and the "finnikin lass" and turns the tables on the 
Knight and the Bishop by having Little John perform the marriage service 
for Allin and this same "finnikin lass." The scene occurs out of doors in- 
stead of within the church as in the original. It closes with a merry dance 
on the green. Several bridesmaids are introduced to make the wedding 
scene more picturesque and to lend beauty to the dance. Tennyson's song 
from The Foresters is introduced as a closing feature. Changes are made in 
the text as in the preceding adaptation, and occasional lines and stanzas 
are invented, such as Little John's s'peech blessing the bride and groom. 

For suggestions for the incidental music, see Bibliography (p. 64). 



48 Dramatization [First Year 

The Baptism of Little John 

Characters : 
Robin Hood. William Stutly. 

The Stranger, Little John Other Members of Robin 

Hood's Band. 

The scene is the forest. Toward the front of the stage is 
an open space. Robin Hood and the Stranger are discovered 
walking on a narrow forest path toward each other. They 
meet, but neither will give way. 

Robin Hood. [Trying to thrust the Stranger out of the way] 
Back stranger ! 'Tis Robin that makes the command. 

This instant, back ! Out of my way ! 
I'm bold Robin Hood, I'll not be withstood! 

I '11 shew you right Nottingham-play ! 

He draws an arrow from his quiver. 

The Stranger. 

Thou talks 't like a coward, a coward I 'trow 

Well arm'd with a long bow you stand, 
To shoot at my breast, while I, I protest, 

Have naught but a staff in my hand. 

Robin Hood. 

The name of a coward, O stranger, I scorn, 

Wherefore my long bow I'll lay by, 
. And now, for thy sake, a staff will I take 

The truth of thy manhood to try. 

While speaking, he steps to the thicket near by, and 
chooses a staff. Then, running back, he speaks merrily. 
Lo ! see my staff is lusty and tough, 

Now here on the path we will play; 
Whoever falls down, shall lose all renown 

Of the battle, and so we'll away. 



First Year] Robin Hood Ballads 49 

The Stranger. 

With all my whole heart, O Robin the bold, 

I scorn in the least to give out; 
Come, hasten — fall to 't, without more dispute 

I'll lay you right low, never doubt. 

They fight; Robin delivers a great blow, the Stranger 
never flinches; bid with his return stroke lays Robin low. 
The Stranger. [Laughing] 

I prithee, good fellow, where art thou now, 

With all thy boasting and pride? 
Up quick, before any one passes this way, 

Run into the forest and hide! 
Robin Hood. [Slowly recovering, he gradually pulls himself 
up, and looks with frank admiration at the Stranger] 
I needs must acknowledge thou art a brave soul, 

With thee I'll no longer contend; 
For needs must I say, thou hast got the day; 

Our battle shall be at an end. 

The Stranger, who has stepped back a short distance, 
listens with open astonishment to Robin, then steps toward 
him, but suddenly halts as Robin winds a loud blast on his 
horn. Immediately, from all sides, Robin's stout bowmen 
rush in, clothed in green and bearing long bows. They sur- 
round Robin, look with amazement at his plight, and cast angry 
glances at the Stranger, who stands transfixed with wonder. 
William Stutly. [Excitedly] 

O, what's the matter, good master, O tell, 

Thy plight it is awful, I trow. 
Robin Hood. 

No matter, my Willie, the lad which you see, 

In fighting hath laid me low. 
William Stutly. [Rushing at the Stranger] 
He shall not go scot-free, by my faith, not he ! 

The dust of the earth he shall wear! 



50 Dramatization [First Year 

All the bowmen rush upon the Stranger who makes 
ready to resist. 
Robin Hood. [To his band] 

Hold men, touch him not, let go, I command! 

He is a stout fellow; forbear! 

[Robin approaches the Stranger and offers his hand] 
There's no one shall wrong thee, friend, be not afraid; 

These bowmen upon me do wait; 
There's three score and nine; if thou wilt be mine, 

Thou shalt have my livery straight. 
The Stranger. [Grasping Robin Hood's hand] 
O, here is my hand, I '11 join your bold band 

And serve you with all my whole heart; 
You'll find I'll be true to men such as you 

Ne 'er doubt me for I '11 play my part. 
Robin Hood. 

I'll give you accoutrements fit for a man. 

Look up, jolly blade, never fear; 
I'll teach you also the use of the bow, 

To shoot at the fat fallow deer. 
The Stranger. 

O your life is so free, 'tis the one life for me, 

For thee I '11 leave kindred and home. 
My name is John Little, a man of good mettle 

With thee in the greenwood to roam. 
William Stutly. 

Thy name shall be altered, John Little, no more, 

And I will thy god-father be. 

[To the others] 
Prepare now a feast and none of the least, 

For we will be merry, pardee. 

Some of the men run of, but soon return with food and 
flagons of wine. They spread a feast on the green. Others 
form a half circle about the Stranger; Robin stands on 



First Year] Robin Hood Ballads 51 

one side, and Stutly on the other, officiating at the 
christening. 
William Stutly. [Pours from his flagon on the Stranger's 

head as he speaks] 
This infant was called John Little, you know, 

Which name shall be changed anon; 
The words we'll transpose, so wherever he goes, 

His name shall be called Little John. 
The Stranger. 

'Tis true my good masters, I'm but seven feet high, 

And, may be, an ell in the waist; 
I'm little indeed and a new name I need, 

So Little John's just to my taste. 

They all shout and laugh approval and drink his health. 
Robin Hood. [Presenting him with a curious long bow] 
Thou shalt be an archer as well as the best, 

And range in the greenwood with us; 
Where we'll not want gold nor silver, behold, 

While bishops have aught in their purse. 

We live here like squires or lords of renown, 

Each one of us is a free lance. 
Come, drink his good health, and wish him much wealth, 

And finish the day with a dance. 

They all drink the health of Little John and join in a 
merry woodland dance. While dancing they sing the 
following: 

Song of Robin Hood and His Huntsmen 

Now wend we together, my merry men all, 

Unto the for rest side a: 
And there to strike a buck or a doe, 

Let our cunning all be a tride a. 



52 Dramatization [First Year 

Then go we merrily, merrily on, 

To the green-wood to take up our stand, 

Where we will lye in waite for our game, 
With our bent bowes in our hand. 

What life is there like to bold Robin Hood's ? 

It is so pleasant a thing a: 
In merry Shirwood he spends his dayes, 

As pleasantly as a king a. 

No man may compare with Robin Hood, 
With Robin Hood, Scathlocke, and John. 

Their like was never, nor never will be, 
If in case that they were gone. 

They will not away from merry Shirwood 

In any place else to dwell; 
For there is neither city nor towne, 

That likes them halfe so well. 

Our lives are wholly given to hunt, 

And haunt the merry greene-wood, 
Where our best service is daily spent 

For our Master Robin Hood. 
Curtain 

The Marriage of Allin a Dale 
Scene I 

Characters : 
Robin Hood. Little John. 

Allin a Dale. Nick, the Miller's Son. 

The scene is the forest. At one side of the stage, partly 
hidden, sits Robin busy with his bow. Allin a Dale is dis- 
covered walking dejectedly along the path. 



First Year] Robin Hood Ballads 53 

Allin a Dale. 

O, sad am I and full of grief, 
For my true love is tane away! 

woe is me, O where is she, 
Alack and a well a day I 

Little John and Nick, the Miller's Son, appear suddenly 
and rush upon him. Allin draws his bow. 
Allin. 

Stand off, stand off, ye merry men, m 
What is your will with me? 
Little John. 

You must come before our master straight, 
Under yon greenwood tree. 
They seize him and take him before Robin. 
Robin. 

Why, who comes here with look so drear, 

Roaming the forest free? 
But first what money canst thou spare [Rising] 
For my merry men and me? 
Allin. 

1 have no money, O Robin, my lord, 

But five shillings and a ring; 
And that I have kept .this seven long years 
To have it at my wedding. 

Yesterday I should have married a maid, 

But she is now from me tane, 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight, 
Whereby my poor heart is slain. 
Robin. 

What is thy name, O, love-lorn lad, 
Come tell me, without any fail. 
Allin. 

By the faith of my body, O, bold Robin Hood, 
My name, it is Allin a Dale. 



54 Dramatization [First Year 

Robin. 

What wilt thou give me, Allin a Dale, 

In ready gold or fee, 
To help thee to thy true love again, 

And deliver her unto thee? 
Allin. 

I have no money, O Robin the bold, 

No ready gold nor fee; 
But I will swear # upon a book 

Thy true servant for to be. 

If thou bringest here my sweetheart dear, 

Thy servant I'll be for aye; 
I'll swear to thee my faith, pardee, 

Forever and a day. 

Robin extends a book toivard Allin, who kneels before 
him, kisses the book, and then rises. 
Robin. 

How many miles is it to thy true love? 

Come tell me without any guile. 
Allin. 

By the faith of my body, if I speak true, 

It is but five little mile. 
Robin. 

I'll go straightway without delay! 

To your true love and her knight; 
When the blast you hear of my bugle clear, 

Come and join me in the fight. 
Allin. 

O, gladly I'll join your merry men, 

When I hear you wind the blast; 
O give her to me and then you'll see 

I'll never more be downcast. 

Robin goes off. ^^ 



First Year] Robin Hood Ballads 55 

Scene II 

Characters : 
Robin Hood. Allin a Dale. 

The Bishop. Little John. 

The Knight. Robin Hood's Band. 

The Bride. Bride's Attendants. 

The scene is the forest. The Bishop stands waiting for 
the Bride and the Knight. Enter Robin, disguised as a minstrel, 
a lyre strung over his shoulder. 

The Bishop. 

What dost thou do here, what wilt thou, my man? 
I prithee now tell to me. 
Robin. 

I am a bold harper, Sir Priest, you see, 
And the best in the north country. 
The Bishop. 

O welcome, O welcome, my harper so bold, 

Thou shalt play at our wedding gay; 
For the knight comes anon, with his finnikin lass, 
To be married by me today. 
Robin. 

You shall have no musick, Sir Priest, not a note, 

'Till the bride and the bridegroom I see. 
Then I'll give thee musick quite after thy heart, 
Under yon greenwood tree. 

Enter the Bride, her raiment glistening, on the arm of 
the bridegroom, an old knight richly dressed. They are 
attended by a train of maidens in wedding array. The 
wedding party steps before the Bishop. 
Robin. [Striding up to the Bishop]. 

This is not a fit match for this finnikin lass, 
That you do seem to make here; 



56 Dramatization [First Year 

For since we are come unto this place, 

The bride shall chuse her own dear. 

Robin blows his horn three times. Immediately his 
men come rushing in, Allin leading, carrying Robin's long 
bow. He delivers it to Robin, then shakes his fist at the 
Knight, steps up to the Bride and takes her hand. She 
turns her back on the Knight and seems much pleased. The 
Knight still stands before the Bishop unwilling to yield his 
position. Robin turns to Allin a Dale, 
This is thy true love, this finnikin lass, 

Young Allin, as I hear say, 
And you shall be married at this same time 

Before we depart away. 

He makes a sign, whereupon his stout bowmen rush upon 
the Knight and seize him. 
The Bishop. [Shaking his fist threateningly at Robin] 
This shall not be, bold harper, I say, 

For thy word shall not stand; 
This knight and this maid shall be married by me, 

As the law is of our land. 

Robin goes up to the Bishop, pulls off his robe and hands 
him over to the men. Then he throws the robe on Little 
John and places him where the Bishop had stood. At the 
same time, the men who have seized the Knight take him 
off and bind him to a tree. Allin takes the place of the 
Knight beside the Bride, who looks well pleased. 
Little John. 

Who gives this maid to marry, I pray? 
Robin. 

That do I, I, Robin the bold. 
Little John. 

I give her to Allin, to Allin a Dale 

For aye to have and to hold. 



First Year] Robin Hood Ballads 57 

Allin. 

I take her with glee, Sir Priest, from thee, 

For aye to have and to hold; 
And he that takes her from Allin a Dale, 
Must needs be very bold. 
Little John. [Blessing them] 

And now you are married, my finnikin lass, 

To Allin a Dale by me; 
A wedding most gay, on this happy day, 
Under the greenwood tree. 
Robin. 

Come, join hands, and finish this merry wedding 

With a roundelay to our queen; 
Let us sing loud and long a gay wedding song, 
And end with a dance on the green. 
They sing the following song as they advance: 

The Song — (From Tennyson's The Foresters, Act II, Scene I) 

There is no land like England, 

Where 'er the light of day be; 
There are no men like Englishmen, 

So tall and bold as they be. 

There is no land like England, 

Where 'er the light of day be; 
There are no maids like English maids, 

So beautiful as they be. 

And these shall wed with freemen, 

And all their sons be free, 
To sing the songs of England 

Beneath the greenwood tree. 
Curtain 



58 Dramatization [First Year 



EPISODES FROM THE ODYSSEY 

Translation by Butcher and Lang 
PREFATORY NOTE 

Among the many dramatic situations in Homer's Odyssey, the fol- 
lowing, taken from Books IV and V, respectively, are especially adapted 
to our purpose, because they admit of very simple treatment, with an 
open air setting. 

Telemachus at the Palace of Menelaus 

Characters : 
Telemachus. Eteoneus. 

Peisistratus. Athene. 

Menelaus. Housekeeper, Serving Maids, 

Helen. and Dancing Girls. 

The stage represents the portico of the palace of Mene- 
laus. At one side, or in the rear, is an opening through which 
a gleam of gold catches the eye, suggesting the splendors of 
the palace within. The furniture consists of a bench, on the 
left, toivard the front of the stage, and a chair on the right for 
Helen. If painted scenery is not available, pedestals sur- 
mounted by Greek vases, and pieces of statuary, placed in the 
rear of the stage, will help to suggest the Greek setting. As the 
curtain rises, Telemachus and Peisistratus are discovered 
entering the portico from the right, near the front of the stage; 
Telemachus'' left arm is thrown about the shoulders of Peisis- 
tratus, and with his right he is pointing toward the opening 
into the hall of the palace. 

Telemachus. Son of Nestor, delight of my heart, mark the 
flashing of bronze through the echoing halls, and the flash- 
ing of gold and of amber and of silver and of ivory. Such 
like, methinks, is the court of Olympian Zeus within. 
Eteoneus, the Squire, enters. 



First Year] The Odyssey 59 

Eteoneus. I have taken the harness from your horses, 
strangers, and now my master comes to welcome 
you. He has bidden the grave housekeeper to set 
food and drink before you, giving freely of such things 
as she has by her. But here comes heaven -descended 
Menelaus. 

Menelaus is followed by the Housekeeper and Maids 
bearing 'platters and vessels with food and drink, to make 
ready for the entertainment of the guests. 
Menelaus. Welcome, young strangers, to our high- 
roofed house ! Taste ye food and be glad, and thereafter, 
when ye have supped, we will ask what men ye are; for 
the blood of your parents is not lost in you, but ye are 
of the line of men that are sceptred kings, the fosterlings 
of Zeus : for no churls could beget sons like you. 
Peisistratus. When we have put from us the desire of 
meat and drink, heaven-descended Menelaus, we will 
gladly tell the purpose of our coming hither. 
Menelaus. Sit down, children dear, and while ye taste 
food, we will summon hither our maids to crown our 
feast with dancing. 

He commands Eteoneus by a gesture to do his bidding, 
then sits down near his guests, who have in the meantime 
seated themselves at the table which the Maids have placed 
on the left, in front of the bench. While they are eating, 
maidens in white Greek gowns, with garlands of flowers, 
dance for their entertainment. Toward the close of the 
dance, Helen enters from the right, opposite the two youths, 
unobserved by them, and is joined by Menelaus. 
Helen. [To Menelaus] Menelaus, fosterling of Zeus, 
know we now who these men avow themselves to be that 
have come under our roof? Shall I dissemble or shall 
I speak the truth? 
Menelaus. I am eager for thy thought. 



60 Dramatization [First year 

Helen. I am minded to tell it. None, I say, have I ever 
yet seen so like another, man nor woman — wonder comes 
over me as I look on him — as this man is like- the son of 
great hearted Odysseus, Telemachus, whom he left a 
new-born child in his house. 

Menelaus. Now I too, lady, mark the likeness even as 
thou tracest it. For such as these were his feet, such 
his hands, and the glances of his eyes, and his head, and 
his hair withal. 

Telemachus catches the name of Odysseus. 

Telemachus. [To Peisistratus] Odysseus! — O Peisistratus, 
may Menelaus, king of men, give me tidings of my 
father ! 

Peisistratus. [Coming forward] Menelaus, son of 
Atreus, fosterling of Zeus, leader of the host, assuredly 
this is the son of that very man, even as thou say est. 
But he is of a sober wit, and thinketh it shame in his 
heart as on this his first coming to make show of pre- 
sumptuous words in the presence of thee, in whose voice 
we twain delight as in the voice of a god. 

Menelaus. Lo! now in good truth there has come unto 
my house the son of a friend indeed, who for my sake 
endured many adventures, [Goes to Telemachus, who in 
the meantime, overcome with the weight of his woes, sits 
tvith bowed head] Dear child ! son of long-tried Odysseus, 
I knew thou wert of the line of heaven-descended sceptred 
kings. The son of brave Odysseus is welcome to our home. 
Telemachus rises, and crosses with Menelaus to the 
right of the stage where Helen stands. 

Helen. Welcome, noble Telemachus, whom thy father 
left at home a new-born child, when the Achaeans, for my 
sake, came under the walls of Troy, eager for battle. 

Maids in the meantime remove the table, and bring a 
distaff and silver basket for Helen, who sits in the chair 



First Year] The Odyssey 61 

already placed on the right* of stage. Menelaus and the 
two youths seat themselves on the bench to the left. 

Menelaus. Wise Telemachus, I thought to welcome him 
. on his coming more nobly than all the other Argives, if 
but Olympian Zeus, of the far-borne voice, had vouch- 
safed us a return over the sea in our swift ships. 
Telemachus covers his eyes with his robe. 

Peisistratus. Nestor of Gerenia, lord of chariots, sent me 
forth to be his guide on the way; for he desired to see thee 
that thou mightest put into his heart some word or work. 
For a son hath many griefs in his halls when his father 
is away, if perchance he has none to stand by him. 

Menelaus. Sad it is to lack a father's help. And here in 
far-off Lacedaemon we know how sore beset by the proud 
wooers is the wise Penelope. 

Peisistratus. Son of Atreus, the ancient Nestor in his 
own halls was ever wont to say that thou wert wise 
beyond man's wisdom, whensoever we made mention of 
thee and asked one another concerning thee. And now, 
if it be possible, be persuaded by me, who for one have 
no pleasure in weeping at supper time — the new-born 
day will right soon be upon us. Not indeed that I deem 
it blame at all to weep for any mortal who hath died and 
met his fate. 

Menelaus. My friend, lo, thou hast said all that a wise 
man might say or do, yea, and an elder than thou; — 
for from such a sire too, thou art sprung, wherefore thou 
dost even speak wisely. But we will cease now the 
weeping which was ere while made. 

Helen. . [Turning to sorrowing Telemachus; pouring a sooth- 
ing draught into a boivl] O son of wise Odysseus, drink 
this healing draught to soothe thy sorrow. Some comfort 
there is in the knowledge of thy father's noble deeds. 
Telemachus drinks. 



62 Dramatization [First Year 

Menelaus. To what end hath thy need brought thee 
hither, hero Telemachus, unto fair Lacedaemon, over 
the broad back of the sea? Is it a matter of the common 
weal or of thine own? Herein tell me the plain truth. 

Telemachus. Menelaus, son of Atreus, fosterling of Zeus, 
leader of the host, I have come if perchance thou mayest 
tell me some tidings of my father. My dwelling is being 
devoured and my fat lands are ruined, and of unfriendly 
men my house is full. So now, am I come hither to thy 
knees, if haply thou art willing to tell me of his pitiful 
death, as one that saw it perchance with thine own eyes, 
or heard the story from some other wanderer. 

Menelaus. My heart is moved by thine appeal. For 
truly in the home of a brave-hearted man were they 
minded to lie, very cravens as they are ! 

Telemachus. I do entreat thee — tell me the very truth ! 

Menelaus. son of brave Odysseus, tomorrow ere thou 
departest, I will tell thee all the story of my wanderings, 
if thou wilt stay to hear. In the river Aegyptus much 
I learned of that ancient one of the sea, whose speech is 
sooth, the deathless Egyptian Proteus, who knows the 
depths of every sea, and is the thrall of Poseidon. 

Telemachus. Of my father — did he tell thee aught? 

Menelaus. When I bade him declare me this, and plainly 
tell me if all those Achaeans returned safe with their 
ships, all whom Nestor and I left as we went from Troy, 
he told me of the fate of Ajax, and of the sad death of 
Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, slain by the crafty 
Aegisthus. 

Telemachus. [Excitedly] And of my father naught? 

Menelaus. He said there was a third who is yet living 
and holden on the wide deep — Laertes' son, whose home 
is Ithaca. 

Telemachus. [Changing quickly from joy to grief] Alive? 



First Year] The Odyssey 63 

— But where is he delayed? Why comes he not to 
save his wasting flocks and bring peace to my mother, 
sorrowing Penelope. 

Menelaus. The ancient man of the sea saw thy dear 
father, brave Odysseus, on the island of Ogygia, in the 
halls of the nymph, Calypso, who holds him there 
perforce; so he may not come to his own country, for he 
has by him no ships with oars, and no companions to 
send him on his way over the broad back of the sea. 

Telemachus. [Kneeling at the feet of Menelaus] O 
Menelaus, fosterling of Zeus, keep me no longer here. 
Let me go hence to offer hecatombs to the gods to restore 
my long-absent father to his home and save us from 
the wasteful wooers. 

Menelaus. Thou art of gentle blood, dear child, so gentle 
the words thou speakest. But lo, now tarry in my halls 
till it shall be the eleventh day hence or the twelfth. 
Then will I send thee with all honor on thy way, and 
give thee splendid gifts. 

Peisistratus. Delay him not, O Son of Atreus! He 
longs to bear to the sorrowing Penelope the tidings that 
his father is alive and may yet return. 

Menelaus. I do grant thy prayer. [To Telemachus] 
So soon as early Dawn shines forth, the rosy-fingered, 
shalt thou go upon thy way. 

Helen. O son of brave Odysseus, rest in the meantime. 
Here beneath the corridor I have bidden the maids to set 
the bedsteads. 

Telemachus. O fair-haired Helen, let our beds be brought, 
that so, at last, lulled in sweet sleep, we be at ease. 

Menelaus. Who knows, but yet the great Odysseus may re- 
turn and recompense the wooers' crimes ! May gray -eyed 
Athene be thy friend, as formerly she aided great Odys- 
seus, there in the Trojan land where we Achaeans suffered. 



64 Dramatization [First Year 

Helen. And so let comforting sleep visit thine eyelids. 
The curtain goes down and rises again on a closing 
tableau. 

Tableau 

The two youths, one on either side of the stage, are discovered 
asleep on couches covered with fur rugs. In the center of the 
stage stands Athene, with right hand raised as if in appeal to 
Zeus, and the other outstretched toward the sleeping Tele- 
machus, who is smiling happily. 
Curtain 

Hermes' Visit to Calypso 

Characters : 
Calypso. Odysseus. 

Hermes. Handmaidens. 

The stage represents the vine-covered entrance to the grotto 
of the nymph Calypso. If painted scenery is available, the 
description in the text may be closely followed; if not, the sur- 
roundings of the grotto may be suggested by vines and flowers 
on the side and rear curtains and a green floor-covering to give 
the effect of grass, with plants scattered here and there. A 
bench and table, preferably green, to make them inconspicuous, 
stand at one side of the opening. Calypso and Hermes are 
discovered, the nymph just emerging from the grotto, Hermes at 
one side of the stage. Calypso greets Hermes somewhat 
coldly but with a certain degree of awe. 

Calypso. Wherefore, I pray thee, Hermes, of the golden 
wand, hast thou come hither, worshipful and welcome, 
whereas of old thou wert not wont to visit me? Tell me 
all thy thought; my heart is set on fulfilling it, if fulfil it 
I may. But after thou hast supped and comforted thy 
soul with food, then thou may est answer me. 



First Year] The Odyssey 65 

Calypso enters the cave. While she is gone, Hermes 

looks with admiration upon the surroundings of the grotto. 
Hermes. [Alone] This is a pleasant spot to rest. Here, 

even an immortal may feast his eyes and at the sight 

be glad at heart. 

Calypso returns, accompanied by two handmaidens 

bearing food and drink, which they place on the table. 
Hermes. [Sitting down] Thou makest question of me on 

my coming, a goddess of a god, and I will tell thee this, 

my saying truly, at thy command. 
Calypso. Do not be in haste. My grotto, even an 

immortal may find a pleasant spot. 
Hermes. Who of his free will would speed over such a 

wondrous space of brine? 
Calypso. To thee, Hermes of the golden wand, whose 

lovely sandals that wax not old, bear thee alike over the 

wet sea and over the limitless land, swift as the breath 

of the wind, the way cannot seem so long. 
Hermes. Interminable! Whereby is no city of mortals 

that do sacrifice to the gods, and offer choice hecatombs. 

But surely it is in no wise possible for another god to go 

beyond or to make void the purpose of Zeus, lord of 

the aegis. 
Calypso. The will of Zeus, lord of the aegis? 
Hermes. Yea, fair-haired nymph. — 'Twas Zeus that bade 

me come hither, by no will of mine. 
Calypso. Thy message, Hermes of the golden wand? 
Hermes. He saith that thou hast with thee a man most 

wretched beyond his fellows, beyond those men that 

round the burg of Priam for nine years fought, and in 

the tenth year sacked the city and departed homeward. 

Yet on the way they sinned against Athene, and she 

raised upon them an evil blast and long waves of the sea. 

Then all the rest of his good company was lost, but it 



66 Dramatization [First rear 

came to pass that the wind bare and the wave brought 
him hither. And now Zeus biddeth thee send him hence 
with what speed thou may est. 

Calypso. Why should he be unhappy on this peaceful 
island? 

Hermes. It is not ordained that he die away from his 
friends, but rather it is his fate to look on them even yet, 
and to come to his high-roofed home and his own country. 

Calypso. [Shuddering] Hard are ye gods and jealous 
exceeding, who now grudge that a mortal man should 
dwell with me. Yet him I saved! 

Hermes. Have regard unto the wrath of Zeus! 

Calypso. Yea, forasmuch as it is in no wise possible for 
another god to make void the purpose of Zeus, lord of 
the aegis, let him away over the unharvested seas, if 
the summons and the bidding be of Zeus. 

Hermes. Even so then let him go; despatch him on his way! 

Calypso. Nay, I will give him no despatch, not I, for I 
have no ships by me with oars, nor company to bear him 
on his way over the broad back of the sea. Yet will I 
be forward to put this in his mind, and will hide nought, 
that all unharmed he may come to his own country. 

Hermes. Yonder he comes. I must depart over the broad 
back of the sea. But let him go quickly hence. Let 
not the wrath of Zeus grow hot against thee ! 

Hermes departs. Odysseus enters with head bowed, 
his whole bearing suggestive of despondency. 

Calypso. Hapless man, sorrow no more I pray thee in this 
isle, nor let thy good life waste away, for even now will 
I send thee hence with all my heart. [Odysseus lifts 
his head in surprise] Nay, arise and cut long beams, 
and fashion a wide raft with the axe, and lay deckings 
high thereupon, that it may bear thee over the misty 
deep. 



First Year] The Odyssey 67 

Odysseus. [Seating himself wearily] Herein, goddess, 
thou hast plainly some other thought, and in no wise my 
furtherance, for that thou biddest me to cross in a raft 
the great gulf of the sea so dread and difficult, which not 
even the swift gallant ships pass over rejoicing in the 
breeze of Zeus. 

Calypso. No other purpose have I. I will supply thee 
with bread and water, and red wine to thy heart's desire, 
to keep hunger far away. And I will put raiment upon 
thee and send a fair gale in thy wake, that so thou may- 
est come all unharmed to thine own country, if indeed 
it be the good pleasure of the gods who hold wide heaven, 
who are stronger than I am both to will and to do. 

Odysseus. [Still incredulously] Never will I go aboard a 
raft unless thou wilt deign, goddess, to swear a great 
oath not to plan any hidden guile to mine own hurt. 

Calypso. [Smiling upon Odysseus and seating herself by his 
side] Knavish thou art, and no weakling in wit! 

Odysseus. I have been long tried. 

Calypso. How hast thou conceived and spoken such a 
word! [Rising] Let earth be now witness hereto, and 
the wide heaven above, and that water of the Styx that 
flows below, the greatest oath and the most terrible to 
the blessed gods, that I will not plan any hidden guile to 
thine own hurt. 

Odysseus. So long the gods have tossed me on the wine- 
dark deep, I cannot yet believe I shall set forth upon my 
homeward way. 

Calypso. My thoughts are such, and such will be my 
counsel, as I would devise for myself, if ever so sore a need 
came over me. For I too have a righteous mind, and my 
heart within me is not of iron, but pitiful even as thine. 
[Falling on her knees at his feet] Son of Laertes, of the 
seed of Zeus, Odysseus of many devices, so it is indeed 



68 Dramatization [First Year 

thy wish to get thee home to thine own dear country, 
even in this hour, to see thy wife, for whom thou hast ever 
a desire day by day? Yet I avow me to be not less noble 
than she in form or fashion. 

She rises and goes to the opposite side, standing against 
a background of vines. 

Odysseus. Be not wroth with me hereat, goddess and 
queen. Myself, I know it well, how wise Penelope is 
meaner to look upon than thou, in comeliness and 
stature. But she is mortal and thou knowest not age 
nor death. Yet even so, I wish and long day by day 
to fare homeward and see the day of my returning. 

Calypso. Yet didst thou know in thine heart what a 
measure of suffering thou art ordained to fulfil, or ever 
thou reach thine own country, here, even here, thou 
wouldst abide with me and keep this house, and wouldst 
never taste of death. 

Odysseus. [Rising] Nay, and if some god shall wreck 
me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure, with a 
heart within me patient of affliction. For already have 
I suffered full much, and much have I toiled in perils of 
waves and war; let this be added to the tale of those. — 
But let me go I pray. 

Calypso. So soon as early Dawn shines forth, the rosy- 
fingered, I will show thee where the trees grow tall and 
furnish thee with all that is needful to build thy broad- 
beamed raft. Farewell then, even so! When the fourth 
day comes, thou wilt have accomplished all. It is the 
will of Zeus, lord of the aegis ! 

Calypso, pointing toward the sky with her right hand 
extends her left toward Odysseus, in sorrow at the thought 
of parting. Odysseus, kneeling, takes the outstretched hand, 
and looks up into the face of the nymph with an expression 
of gratitude. The curtain goes down on this tableau. 



First Year] The Odyssey 69 



TABLEAUX FROM THE ODYSSEY, WITH 
DESCRIPTIVE READINGS 

(Translation t»y Butcher and Lang) 
PREFATORY NOTE 

The following tableaux are planned to suggest the story of the 
Odyssey. The Reader for each scene is dressed in Greek costume and 
stands as near the edge of the stage as possible, and off to one side, so 
as not to obscure the view or mar the picture. One Reader may be used 
throughout, or different Readers for the various descriptions. 

The following is an appropriate setting for all the tableaux: a long 
curved seat draped in white to represent marble, and placed well to the 
rear; a number of white-draped screens making a continuous curved 
wall, about two feet back of the seat, allowing space for the grouping 
of characters in the longer tableaux; against the curtain in the rear, on 
the right, a tall white pedestal surmounted by a Greek vase, and on 
the left, reaching nearly to the ceiling, a slender pine sapling sugges- 
tive of the sky-stretching pine of the Odyssey. This setting is based 
upon the Alma Tadema picture, "A Reading from Homer." Painted 
scenery may be substituted for the curtain as a background, but is not 
essential. 

The curved seat, supplemented by stools, affords sufficient room for 
grouping the seated figures in the middle-distance in the more elaborate 
tableaux. As in photographs of large groups, some stand in the back- 
ground, others are seated on the floor. With this arrangement, few 
changes in the setting are necessary for the different tableaux. The 
front of the stage is left free for the central figures. The picture is in 
every case suggested by the descriptive reading. Where the text does 
not furnish sufficient details, these must be worked out by the instructor 
in charge. 

Tableau I 
Athene's Appeal to Zeus 

Reading before curtain rises. 

And the goddess, gray-eyed Athene, answered him, 
saying: 

"O father, our father Kronides, throned in the highest; 
my heart is rent for wise Odysseus, the hapless one, who 



70 Dramatization [First Year 

far from his friends this long while suffereth affliction in 
a seagirt isle, where is the navel of the sea, a woodland 
isle, and therein a goddess hath her habitation, the 
daughter of the wizard Atlas. Wherefore wast thou 
then so wroth with him, O Zeus?" 

And Zeus, the cloud-gatherer answered her, and said: 

"My child, what word hath escaped the door of thy 
lips? Yea, how should I forget divine Odysseus, who 
in understanding is beyond mortals and beyond all men 
hath done sacrifice to the deathless gods, who keep the 
wide heaven? Nay, but it is Poseidon, the girdler of the 
earth, that hath been wroth continually with quenchless 
anger for the Cyclops' sake whom he blinded of his eye, 
even godlike Polyphemus, whose power is mightiest 
amongst all the Cyclops." 

Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athene, answered him, 
and said: 

Curtain rises. Reading for tableau. 

"O father, our father Kronides, throned in the highest, 
if indeed this thing is now well pleasing to the blessed 
gods, that wise Odysseus should return to his own home, 
let us then speed Hermes, the Messenger, the slayer of 
Argos, to the island of Ogygia. There with all speed, let 
him declare to the lady of the braided tresses our unerr- 
ing counsel, even the return of the patient Odysseus, 
that so he may come to his home. But as for me, I will 
go to Ithaca that I may rouse his son yet the more, 
planting might in his heart. And I will guide him to 
Sparta and to sandy Pylos to seek tidings of his dear 
father's return, if peradventure he may hear thereof, 
and that so he may be had in good report among men." 
Curtain 



First Year] The Odyssey 71 

Tableau II 
Telemachus' Address to the Wooers 

Reading before curtain rises. 

Now the wooers clamored throughout the shadowy 
halls and wise Telemachus first spake among them: 

"Wooers of my mother, men despiteful out of measure, 
let us feast now and make merry and let there be no 
brawling; for, lo, it is a good thing to list to a minstrel 
such as him, like to the gods in voice. But in the 
morning let us all go to the assembly and sit us down, 
that I may declare my saying outright, to wit that ye 
leave these halls." 

Curtain rises. Reading for tableau. 
"And busy yourselves with other feasts, eating your 
own substance, going in turn from house to house. But 
if ye deem this a likelier and a better thing, that one 
man's goods should perish without atonement, then 
waste ye as ye will; and I will call upon the everlasting 
gods, if haply Zeus may grant that acts of recompense 
be made; so should ye hereafter perish within the halls 
without atonement." 

Curtain 

Tableau III 

The Recognition of Telemachus at the Home 

of Menelaus 

Reading before curtain rises. 

And Menelaus marked Telemachus and mused in his 
mind and his heart whether he should leave him to speak 
of his father, or first question him and prove him in every 
word. While yet he pondered these things in his mind 
and in his heart, Helen came forth from her fragrant 
vaulted chamber, like Artemis of the golden arrows. 



72 Dramatization [First Year 

Approaching Menelaus, anon she spake to her lord and 
questioned him of each thing: 

Curtain rises. Reading for tableau. 

"Menelaus, fosterling of Zeus, know we now who 
these men avow themselves to be that have come under 
our roof? Shall I dissemble or shall I speak the truth? 
Nay, I am minded to tell it. None, I say, have I ever 
yet seen so like another, man nor woman — wonder 
comes over me as I look on him — as this man is like 
the son of great-hearted Odysseus, Telemachus, whom he 
left a new-born child in his house, when for the sake of 
me, ye Achaeans came up under Troy with bold war in 
your hearts." 

Curtain 

Tableau IV 
Penelope Awaiting the Return of Telemachus 

Reading before curtain rises. 

But the wise Penelope lay there in her upper chamber, 
fasting and tasting neither meat nor drink, musing 
whether her noble son should escape death, or even fall 
before the proud wooers. So was she musing when deep 
sleep came over her. And she sank back in sleep and 
all her joints were loosened. 

Now the goddess, gray-eyed Athene, turned to other 
thoughts. She made a phantom, and fashioned it after 
the likeness of a woman, Iphthime, daughter of great- 
hearted Icarius. And she sent it to the house of divine 
Odysseus to bid Penelope, amid her sorrow and lamenting 
to cease from her weeping and tearful lamentation. 
So the phantom passed into the chamber by the thong 
of the bolt, and stood above her head and spake unto 
her, saying: 



First Year] The Odyssey 73 

Curtain rises. Reading for tableau. 

"Sleepest thou, Penelope, stricken at heart? Nay, 
even the gods who live at ease suffer thee not to wail or 
be afflicted, seeing that thy son is yet to return; for no 
sinner is he in the eyes of the gods. Take courage, and 
be not so sorely afraid. For lo, such a friend goes to 
guide him, as all men pray to stand by them, for that she 
hath the power, even Pallas Athene. And she pitieth 
thee in thy sorrow, and now hath sent me forth to speak 
these words to thee". 

Curtain 

Tableau V 
The Departure of Odysseus from Ogygia 

Reading before curtain rises. 

So soon as early Dawn shone forth, the rosy-fingered, 
anon Odysseus put on him a mantle and doublet. And 
now Calypso led the way to the border of the isle where 
tall trees grew, alder and poplar, and pine that reacheth 
to heaven, seasoned long since and sere that might 
lightly float for him. Now after she had shown him 
where the tall trees grew, Calypso, the fair goddess, 
departed homeward. And he set to cutting timber, 
and his work went busily. It was the fourth day when 
he had accomplished all. And, lo, on the fifth, the fair 
Calypso sent him on his way from the island. 

Curtain rises. Reading for tableau. 

Moreover, the goddess gave him two skins, one of dark 
wine, and another, a great one, of water, and corn, too, 
in a wallet, and a store of dainties to his heart's desire, 
and sent forth a warm and gentle wind to blow. 
Curtain 



74 Dramatization [First Tear 

Tableau VI (Motion Pictures) 
Arrival of Odysseus in the Land of the Phaeacians 

1. The Game of Ball. — Nausicaa's Maids. 

2. The Meeting of Odysseus and Nausicaa. 
Reading before curtain rises. 

Now when Nausicaa and her maids were come to the 
beautiful stream of the river, where truly were the 
unfailing cisterns, and bright water welled up from 
beneath, and flowed past, there the girls unharnessed 
the mules from the chariot. Then they took the 
garments from the wain, in their hands, and bore them 
to the black water and briskly trod them down in the 
trenches, in busy rivalry. Now when they had washed 
and cleansed all the stains, they spread all out in order 
along the shore of the deep, even where the sea in beating 
on the coast, washed the pebbles clean. Anon, when 
they were satisfied with food, the maidens fell to playing 
at ball, casting away their tires. Nausicaa of the white 
arms watched their sport. And as they played, the 
goodly Odysseus awoke and sat up pondering in his 
heart and spirit: 

"Woe is me! to what men's land am I come now? 
say, are they fro ward, and wild, and unjust, or are they 
hospitable and of God-fearing mind? How shrill a cry 
of maidens rings round me, of the nymphs that hold 
the steep hill-tops, and the river-springs, and the grassy 
water meadows! It must be, methinks, that I am near 
men of human speech. Go to, I, myself will make trial 
and see." 

Therewith the goodly Odysseus crept out from under 
the coppice to meet the maids. And they fled cowering 
here and there about the jutting spits of the shore. 



First Year] The Odyssey 75 

The curtain rises on the tableau presenting Nausicad 
at the right, near the front of the stage, watching her maidens y 
posed for the first position of a ball game such as is taught 
in high-school physical culture work. At a given signal, 
the music begins and the game proceeds. The Reader 
remains in position. Just before the close of the game, 
Odysseus appears at the left, stands a moment, and is seen by 
the maidens, who throw down their balls and run off the 
stage in different directions, leaving Nausicad and Odys- 
seus alone. Odysseus approaches Nausicad to center of 
stage, and stands with outstretched arms during the reading 
of the following passage. 

And the daughter of Alcinous alone stood firm to meet 
him. So straightway he spake a sweet and cunning word : 

"I supplicate thee, O queen! Grievous sorrow is upon 
me. Yesterday, on the twentieth day, I escaped from 
the wine-dark deep, but all that time continually the 
wave bare me, and the vehement winds drave, from the 
isle Ogygia. Then, queen, have pity on me, for after 
many trials and sore, to thee first of all am I come. Show 
me the town. And may the gods grant thee all thy 
heart's desire. 

The pose changes on cue " Then Nausicaa of the white 
arms answered him." Nausicad turns as if addressing 
Odysseus, and points toward the city in the distance. The 
reading does not stop during this change of pose. 

Then Nausicaa of the white arms answered him, 
and said: "Stranger, forasmuch as thou seemest no evil 
man nor foolish, I will show thee the town, and name the 
name of the people. The Phaeacians hold this city and 
land, and I am the daughter of Alcinous, great of heart, 
on whom all the might and force of the Phaeacians 
depend. 

Curtain 



76 Dramatization [First Year 

Tableau VII 
Odysseus' Appeal to Arete 

Reading before curtain rises. 

Now the steadfast goodly Odysseus went through the 
house, clad in a thick mist, which Athene shed around 
him, till he came to Arete and the king Alcinous. And 
Odysseus knelt at the feet of Arete and then it was that 
the wondrous mist melted from off him, and a silence fell 
on them that were within the house at the sight of him, 
and they marvelled as they beheld him. Then Odysseus 
began his prayer : 

Curtain rises on tableau — Odysseus at the feet of Arete. 
This picture represents the court of Alcinous — with bard, 
flower-maidens, pages, etc. 

Reading for tableau. 

"Arete, daughter of god-like Rhexenor, after many 
toils am I come to thy husband and to thy knees and to 
these guests, and may the gods vouchsafe them a happy 
life, and may each one leave to his children after him his 
substance in his halls and whatever dues of honor the 
people have rendered unto him. But speed, I pray you, 
my parting right quickly, that I may come to mine own 
country, for already too long do I suffer affliction far 
from my friends." 

Curtain 

Tableau VIII 

Odysseus Relating His Story at the Court of 
Alcinous 

The group is the same as for the previous tableau, with 
positions slightly changed. Odysseus, on a stool in the 
center, is relating his story. 



First Year] The Odyssey 77 

Reading before curtain rises. 

And Odysseus of many counsels answered him 
saying: "King Alcinoiis, most notable of all the people, 
there is no more gracious or perfect delight than when a 
whole people makes merry, and the men sit orderly at 
feast in the halls and listen to the singer, and the tables 
by them are laden with bread and flesh, and a wine- 
bearer drawing the wine serves it round and pours it into 
the cups. But now thy heart was inclined to ask my 
grievous troubles, that I may mourn for more exceeding 
sorrow. What then shall I tell of first, what last? 
First, I will tell my name, that ye, too, may know it." 

Curtain rises. Reading for tableau. 
"I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, who am in men's 
minds for all manner of wiles, and my fame reaches unto 
heaven. And I dwell in clear-seen Ithaca, wherein is 
a mountain Neriton, standing manifest to view. And 
for myself I can see nought beside sweeter than a man's 
own country. Surely there is nought sweeter than a 
man's own country and his parents, even though he 
dwell far off in a rich home, in a strange land, away 
from them that begat him. But come, let me tell thee 
too of the troubles of my journeying, which Zeus laid 
on me as I came from Troy." 

Curtain 

Tableau IX 
The Meeting of Odysseus and Telemachus 

Reading before curtain rises. 

And now Odysseus went into the hut, and his dear 
son marvelled at him and looked away for fear lest it 
should be a god, and he uttered his voice and spake to 
him in winged words: 



78 Dramatization [First Year 

"Even now, stranger, thou art other in my sight than 
that thou wert a moment since, and other garments 
thou hast, and the color of thy skin is no longer the same. 
Surely thou art a god of those that keep the wide heaven. 
Nay, then, be gracious, that we may offer to thee well- 
pleasing sacrifices and golden gifts, beautifully wrought; 
and spare us, I pray thee." Then the steadfast goodly 
Odysseus answered him, saying: 

Curtain rises for two pictures. First pose, — Telemachus 
gazing with awe upon his. father. Reading for tableau. 

"Behold, no god am I; why likenest thou me to the 
immortals? Nay, thy father am I, for whose sake thou 
sufferest many pains and groanest sore, and submittest 
thee to the despite of men." 

But Telemachus (for as yet he believed not that it 
was his father) answered in turn and spake : 

"Thou art not Odysseus, my father, but some god 
beguiles me, that I may groan for more exceeding 
sorrow." 

Then Odysseus of many counsels, answered him 
saying: 

"Telemachus, it fits thee not to marvel overmuch 
that thy father is come home, or to be amazed." 

Second pose as reading continues. Telemachus' expres- 
sion changes to one of joy as Odysseus extends his hands 
toward him. 

"Nay for thou shalt find no other Odysseus come hither 
any more; but lo, I, all as I am, after suffering and 
much wandering have come in the twentieth year to mine 
own country." 

The Reader retires. 

Curtain 



rirst Year] The Odyssey 79 

Tableau X (Motion Pictures) 

Celebration of Odysseus' Home-coming 

Passing over the story of the slaughter of the wooers 
and the punishment of the unfaithful servants, the cele- 
bration of Odysseus' home-coming and reunion with the 
faithful Penelope are suggested by tableau and proces- 
sion which should be marked by a spirit of rejoicing. 
Bright flowers, strewn by flower-maidens, cheerful music, 
and laughing faces characterize the scene. As the 
curtain rises, Athene, who has aided Telemachus and 
Odysseus, stands, spear in right hand, shield in left, in the 
center of the stage; Penelope and Telemachus on her left, 
a little in front, Odysseus on her right, the other characters 
picturesquely grouped in a semi-circle behind them. All 
the characters are utilized in this tableau. At the first 
chord of music, Penelope meets Odysseus, center; they 
march to front of stage, turn to right; Athene joins Tele- 
machus; they march to front and turn to left; the other 
characters fall in similarly, alternating right and left, 
leave stage, and march through the auditorium. The march 
may be elaborated as desired. 



80 Dramatization cnrst Year 



FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 

PREFATORY NOTE. 

Feathertop, (Mosses from an Old Manse), offers a good humorous inci- 
dent for high school production. The dramatization gives the story in 
two scenes, The Making of Feathertop and The Awakening of Feathertop. 
The adventures of Feathertop while out in the world, are omitted 
because of the difficulty of staging. The presentation of this selection 
ought to be dramatically effective. The main changes of text neces- 
sary for dramatizing are the shortening of Mother Rigby's speeches and 
the introduction of appropriate comments for the Scarecrow. Dickon 
is materialized as a Sprite and the Scarecrow is sufficiently humanized 
to admit of impersonation. 

Scene I 

The Making of Feathertop 

Characters : 
Mother Rigby, a Witch. 
The Scarecrow (Feathertop.) 
Dickon, a Sprite. 

The scene represents the interior of Mother Rigby's hut. At 
the left is a rude hearth, on which is a heap of ashes. At the 
right, in a corner concealed by a curtain, is the Scarecrow. A 
rough table and chair complete the furnishings. The time is 
early morning. As the curtain rises, Mother Rigby is dis- 
covered seated at the table, pipe in hand. She has just finished 
a frugal breakfast. 

Mother Rigby. Dickon! a light for my pipe! [Enter 
Dickon with a lighted taper. He hands Mother Rigby 
the light] Good! Thank ye, Dickon! Be within call, 
Dickon, in case I need ye again. 

Dickon. At your service, Mother Rigby. [Exit] 



First Year] FeatkeHop 81 

Mother Rigby, [Rising] And now I must look at the 
scarecrow I made for my corn-patch last night. [She 
hobbles to the corner, throws aside the curtain, and dis- 
closes the Scarecrow, a marvelous figure, wearing a 
powdered wig surmounted by a three-cornered hat, in which 
is stuck the white tail-feather of a rooster. A plum- 
colored coat, scarlet knee breeches, and white silk stockings 
complete the costume. The boy representing this 
Scarecrow must be exceedingly jerky and angular in 
his movements. For further details, see text] Surely it 
looks as if it were saying "Come and look at me!" [To 
the Scarecrow] And you are well worth looking at, that 's 
a fact! [Returning to her seat] I've made many a 
puppet since I've been a witch; but me thinks this is 
the finest of them all. "lis almost too good for a 
scarecrow. And by the by, I'll just fill a fresh pipe 
of tobacco, and then take him out to the corn-patch. 
[While filling her pipe she gazes thoughtfully at the 
Scarecrow and becomes visibly more pleased as she gazes] 
Dickon ! [rather sharply] another light for my pipe ! 
Enter Dickon with taper. 

Dickon. Here, Mother Rigby, at your service. 

He hands the taper to Mother Rigby, then leaves. 
Mother Rigby seats herself in the chair again, turns 
toward the Scarecrow, puffs away at her pipe, and con- 
tinues to gaze at the Scarecrow as she talks. 

Mother Rigby. That puppet yonder is too good a piece 
of work to stand all summer in a corn-patch, frightening 
away crows and blackbirds. He's capable of better 
things. Why, I've danced with a worse one, when 
partners happened to be scarce, at our witch meetings in 
the forest! [Pauses] What if I should let him take his 
chance among the other men of straw and empty fellows 
who go bustling about the world? [She takes two or 



82 Dramatization [First Year 

three more whiffs of her pipe and smiles broadly] He'll 
meet plenty of his brethren at every street corner! 
[After a pause, rising and going toward the Scarecrow] 
Yes, I '11 make a man of my Scarecrow, were it only for 
the joke's sake! [She takes the pipe from her own lips 
and places it in the Scarecrow's mouth. — Addressing the 
Scarecrow] Puff, darling, puff! Puff away, my fine 
fellow! Your life depends on it! It is the breath of 
life to ye. 

The figure gradually becomes animated, raises its right 
hand, seizes the pipe, and takes two or three puffs. 

Mother Rigby. Well puffed, my pretty lad! Puff on, 
puff for thy life, I tell thee! [The figure continues to 
puff away rigorously] Why lurkest thou in the corner, 
lazy one? Step forth! Thou hast the world before thee ! 
[The figure extends one arm toward Mother Rigby, makes a 
step forward, a kind of hitch and jerk, totters and almost 
loses its balance. Mother Rigby scowls and beckons to it 
and speaks angrily] Puff away, wretch! Puff, puff, 
puff, thou thing of straw and emptiness ! thou rag or two! 
thou meal bag! thou pumpkin head! thou nothing! 

The Scarecrow, frightened, puffs away frantically as if 
for dear life. With each puff the figure seems to get more 
and more control of itself. 

Mother Rigby. [Sternly, shaking her fist at the Scarecrow] 
Thou hast a man's aspect. Have also the echo and 
mockery of a voice ! I bid thee speak ! 

The Scarecrow. [Gasping, struggling, and finally mum- 
bling] Mother, be not so awful with me ! I would fain 
speak. But being without wits, what can I say? 

Mother Rigby. [Smiling] Thou canst speak, darling, 
canst thou? And what shalt thou say, quotha! Say, 
indeed! Art thou of the brotherhood of the empty 
skull, and demandest of me what thou shalt say? Thou 



First Year] Feathertop 83 

shalt say a thousand things, and saying them a thousand 
times over, thou shalt still have said nothing! Be not 
afraid, I tell thee! When thou comest into the world 
(whither I purpose sending thee forthwith) thou shalt 
not lack the wherewithal to talk. Talk! Why, thou 
shalt babble like a mill-stream, if thou wilt. Thou hast 
brains enough for that, I trow! 

The Scarecrow. [Bowing stiffly] At your service, mother. 

Mother Rigby. And that was well said, my pretty one. 
Then thou spakest like thyself, and meant nothing. 
Thou shalt have a hundred such set phrases, and five 
hundred to the boot of them. And now, darling, give 
heed to what I say! 

The Scarecroav. [Placing hand on heart] Yes, kind 
mother, with all my heart ! 

Mother Rigby. [Laughing loudly] With all thy heart! 
Thou hast such a pretty way of speaking. With all thy 
heart! And thou didst put thy hand to the left side 
of thy waistcoat as if thou really hadst one! 

The Scarecrow. To be sure! 

Mother Rigby. And now go and play thy part in the big 
world. That thou mayst hold up thy head with the 
best of them, I endow thee with untold wealth — a gold 
mine in Eldorado, ten thousand shares in a broken 
bubble, half a million acres of vineyard at the North 
Pole and a castle in the air, in Spain, with all the rents 
accruing therefrom. And here is a copper for ready 
cash. And here the best of all ! 

She takes a piece of brass from her pocket and rubs his 
forehead with it. 

The Scarecrow. The best of all? Is it possible? 

Mother Rigby. Indeed it is. With that brass alone 
thou canst pay thy way all over the earth. And now, 
pretty darling, I have done my best for thee. 



84 Dramatization [First Year 

The Scarecrow. [Caressing Mother Rigby] Indeed thou 
hast, pretty mother, and I thank thee a thousand 
times ! 

Mother Rigby. How like a man that sounds ! And now 
go forth! I send thee direct to the worshipful Justice 
Gookin. The worshipful Justice knows Mother Rigby, 
[laughing] and Mother Rigby knows him. Whisper but 
this word in his ear, [whispering to him] and he will be 
like putty in thy hands. 

The Scarecrow. Indeed? I can scarce believe it. 

Mother Rigby. [Aside] He is getting more and more 
human every second. He will soon be a man. [To him] 
And the worshipful Master Gookin hath a comely 
maiden to his daughter. 

The Scarecrow. [Much interested] So? Pray tell me 
about her. 

Mother Rigby. Well, hark ye, my pet! Thou hast a 
fair outside, and a pretty wit enough of thy own. 

The Scarecrow. [With protesting modesty] Oh, Mother 
Rigby! 

Mother Rigby. Yea, a pretty wit enough! Thou wilt 
think better of it when thou hast seen more of other 
people's wits. 

The Scarecrow. Really? 

Mother Rigby. Never doubt it! Now thou art the very 
man to win a girl's heart. 

The Scarecrow straightens up with pride. 

The Scarecrow. Indeed? Oh! Ah! Hem! 

Mother Rigby. Put a bold face on the matter, sigh, 
smile, flourish thy hat, thrust forth thy leg like a dancing 
master, put thy right hand to the left side of thy waist- 
coat, and pretty Polly Gookin is thine own ! 

As she speaks the Scarecrow performs the various acts 
as directed, smiles, sighs, etc. He repeats these acts 



First Year] Feathertop 85 

several times. He has been puffing away at his pipe 
intermittently and seems now to take great enjoyment in it. 
The more vigorously he smokes the more human he becomes 
in his motions. 

Mother Rigby. [Approaching him and taking the pipe 
from his unwilling hands. As she takes it away a change 
comes over the Scarecrow; he suddenly stiffens in every 
joint and loses much of his human semblance] I see, my 
dear, that your pipe is getting low. Let me fill it for thee. 
[She takes tobacco from her pouch and fills it] Dickon ! 
another light for this pipe. 

Enter Dickon with lighted taper. 

Dickon. And it is here, my mistress! 

He gives the taper to Mother Rigby and vanishes. 

Mother Rigby. [Lighting the pipe] Here, mine own 
heart's darling. [The Scarecrow grasps the pipe eagerly, 
puts it to his mouth, puffs vigorously, and gradually 
becomes less rigid] Now, whatever happens, thou must 
stick to thy pipe. Thy life is in it. Stick to thy pipe, 
I say ! Smoke, puff, blow thy cloud. 

The Scarecrow. That will I, Mother Rigby. Never fear. 
[Puffing away] 

Mother Rigby. And tell the people if any question be 
made, that it is for thy health, and that so the physician 
orders thee to do. 

The Scarecrow. [Slyly] Ah, I see ! I '11 follow thy bidding, 
pretty mother. 

Mother Rigby. And, sweet one, when thou shalt find thy 
pipe getting low, go apart into some corner, and cry 
sharply, "Dickon, a fresh pipe of tobacco!" and have it 
into thy pretty mouth as speedily as may be. Else, 
instead of a gallant gentleman in a gold-laced coat, thou 
wilt be but a jumble of sticks and tattered clothes, and 
a bag of straw . 



86 Dramatization [First Year 

The Scarecrow. [Startled] Ah! Really? Let me try — 
Die — Dickon — Dickon. [Trying to imitate Mother Rigby' s 
tone] Dickon, a fresh pipe of tobacco! Just so, just so. 

Mother Rigby. Well done, my pretty. And now depart, 
and good luck go with thee! 

The Scarecrow. [Going up to her and taking her hand] 
Never fear, mother! I will thrive, if an honest man and 
a gentleman may! 

Mother Rigby. [Convulsed with laughter] Oh, thou wilt 
be the death of me ! That was well said, If an honest 
man and a gentleman may! Thou play est thy part to 
perfection. Get along with thee for a smart fellow! 
Did / not make thee? [Looking at him with pride] 
And I defy any witch in New England to make such 
another! Here, take my staff along with thee! 

She gives him her staff which suddenly becomes a gold- 
headed cane. This transformation can be easily made by 
Mother Rigby' s slipping unnoticed a cap made of gilt 
paper on the end of the stick. 

The Scarecrow. [Taking the gold-headed cane and looking 
at it curiously] Upon my word ! 

Mother Rigby. That gold head has as much sense in it 
as thine own. 

The Scarecrow. Really? 

Mother Rigby. And it will guide thee straight to wor- 
shipful Master Gookin's door. 

The Scarecrow. Is it possible? 

Mother Rigby. [Laughing. — Aside] How like a wit he 
speaks! [To him] It is. Now get thee gone, my pretty pet, 
my darling, my precious one, my treasure. [Caressing him] 
And if any ask thy name, it is Feathertop. For thou hast a 
feather in thy hat, and I have thrust a handful of feathers 
into the hollow of thy head, and thy wig too is of the 
fashion they call Feathertop, — so be thy name Feathertop ! 



First Year] Feathertop 87 

The Scarecrow. [Bowing low and kissing Mother Rigby' s 
hand] So be it. Hereafter I shall know myself as 
Feathertop, and whithersoever I go, men shall know me 
as Lord Feathertop. Adieu, sweet mother, I go to seek 
my fortune at the portals of Justice Gookin. 

He strides manfully out of the door, leaving Mother 
Rigby shaking her sides with laughter. 
Curtain 

Scene II 

The Awakening of Feathertop 

The scene and the characters are the same. The time is 
evening. A candle burns on the table, beside which sits Mother 
Rigby, smoking her pipe. As the curtain rises, a noise like 
the clatter of sticks is heard outside. 

Mother Rigby. [Taking the pipe from her mouth, and 
shaking out the ashes] Ha! What step is that? Whose 
skeleton is out of the grave now, I wonder? 

Feathertop bursts headlong into the cottage, his pipe still 
alight, his aspect still human. He approaches Mother 
Rigby and stands despondently before her. 

Mother Rigby. [Excitedly] What has gone wrong? Did 
yonder sniffling hypocrite thrust my darling from his 
door? The villain! I'll set twenty fiends to torment 
him till he offer thee his daughter on his bended knees! 

Feathertop. [Despairingly] No, mother, it was not that. 

Mother Rigby. [Vindictively] Did the girl scorn my 
precious one? I'll cover her face with pimples! Her 
nose shall be as red as the light in thy pipe! Her front 
teeth shall drop out! In a week hence she shall not be 
worth thy having ! 

Feathertop. [Despondently] Let her alone, mother. — The 
girl was half won; and methinks a kiss from her 



88 Dramatization [First Year 

sweet lips might have made me altogether human. But — 
[he pauses] there was a full length mirror in the room. 
[He pauses again] It showed me myself, mother, and no 
illusion. [Then, excitedly, in atone of utter self -contempt] 
I've seen myself, mother! I've seen myself for the 
wretched, ragged, empty thing I am! I'll exist no 
longer ! 

He flings his pipe angrily against the chimney and sinks 
upon the floor, a formless heap. 
Mother Rigby. [Rising and standing over him. She 
speaks ruefully] Poor fellow! My poor, dear, pretty 
Feathertop! There are thousands upon thousands of 
coxcombs and charlatans in the world, made up of just 
such a jumble of worn out, forgotten, and good-for- 
nothing trash as he was! Yet they live in fair repute, 
and never see themselves for what they are. And why 
should my poor puppet be the only one to know himself 
and perish for it? [She slowly fills her pipe and stands 
irresolute. Then she stoops and is about to thrust it into 
Feathertop 's mouth, but she hesitates, and finally draws it 
slowly away] Poor Feathertop! [With much feeling] 
I could easily give him another chance and send him 
forth again tomorrow. But no; his feelings are too 
tender, his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have too 
much heart to bustle for his own advantage in such an 
empty and heartless world. [Pauses; then more cheer- 
fully] Well ! well ! I '11 make a scarecrow of him, after 
all. 'Tis an innocent and useful vocation, and will suit 
my darling well; and, if each of his human brethren had 
as fit a one, 'twould be the better for mankind; and as 
for this pipe of tobacco, I need it more than he. [She 
puts the pipe between her lips and puffs] Dickon! 
Another light for my pipe! 

As Dickon enters with a lighted taper, the curtain drops. 



SECOND YEAR 



THE ILIAD 

Translation by Lang, Leaf, and Myers 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The scene chosen from Homer's Iliad, Book I is the Assembly of the 
Argive chiefs to consider the means for appeasing the wrath of Apollo, 
in which the great dramatic incident is the quarrel of Agamemnon and 
Achilles. The appeal of Chryses serves as Prologue. 

The historical details necessary to a presentation of the Greek 
Assembly may be gleaned from the several accounts of Assemblies in the 
Iliad and the Odyssey. The Homeric narratives show that the proce- 
dure was extremely informal. The Assembly was convened without 
ceremony, and the rising of the presiding chief was the signal for the 
dissolution. The peace Assembly, of which we find an illustration in 
the Odyssey, Book II, does not differ essentially from the war Assembly 
of the Iliad, except that the latter seems to be a degree less formal. 
Therefore in making suggestions for the "business" of the scenes 
selected, the two have been used interchangeably. The one formality 
in the procedure noted in the Odyssey, Book II, has been utilized for 
dramatic effect in the scene here given: And he stood in mid Assembly; 
and the Herald Peisenor placed the staff in his hands. 

Scene I 

The Appeal of Chryses 

Characters : 
Agamemnon. Calchas. 

Achilles. Nestor, and Other Greek Chiefs. 

Heralds. Chryses, Priest of Apollo. 

Apollo, as a Shepherd. 
The scene presents an Assembly of chiefs held on the shore 
near the Greek ships. On one side, rudely constructed 
benches are arranged in a semi-circle so that the main charac- 
ters may face the audience. Agamemnon occupies a rough- 



8 Dramatization [second Year 

hewn seat in front of the benches, so placed that the audience 
may watch his expression throughout the scene, and far enough 
away from the benches to alloiv space for Chryses between him 
and the assembled chiefs. On either side of Agamemnon is 
a Herald seated on the ground, leaning against the base of the 
king's seat. As the curtain rises, Chryses appears at the rear- 
center of the stage, bearing a golden scepter with the fillets of 
Apollo, the symbols of his priesthood. 

Chryses. [Addressing the Assembly] Ye sons of Atreus 
and all ye well-greaved Achaeans, now may the gods 
that dwell in the mansions of Olympus grant you to lay 
waste the city of Priam, and to fare happily homeward; 
only set ye my dear child free, and accept the ransom 
in reverence to the son of Zeus, far-darting Apollo. 

One of the Chiefs. [Amid applause of majority] Ye 
Argive warriors, heed a father's prayer. Revere the 
priest, and take the liberal gifts he offers. Give him 
back his well-loved child ! 

Agamemnon. [Scornfully, with threatening air] Let me not 
find thee, old man, amid the hollow ships, whether 
tarrying now, or returning again hereafter, lest the staff 
and fillet of the god avail thee naught. And her will I 
not set free; nay, ere that shall old age come on her in 
our house in Argos, far from her native land, where she 
shall ply the loom. But depart, provoke me not, that 
thou mayest the rather go in peace. 

Agamemnon, rising, dismisses the Assembly. The old 
priest walks slowly toicard the left of the stage; the council 
silently dissolves, the warriors going out to the right. When 
the old man reaches the exit, he suddenly turns, watches the 
departing chiefs a moment, then offers his prayer to Apollo. 

Chryses. Hear me, god of the silver bow, that standest 
over Chrysa and holy Cilia and rulest Tenedos with 



Second Year] 



The Iliad 9 



might, O Smintheus! if ever I built a temple gracious in 
thine eyes, or if ever I burnt to thee fat flesh of thighs of 
bulls or goats, fulfill thou this my desire; let the Danaans 
pay by thine arrows for my tears. 

Apollo appears to Chryses in the form of a Greek 
shepherd, with silver bow and quiver. 
Apollo. Priest of Apollo, the god of the silver bow hath 
heard thy prayer, and, wroth at heart, because the 
bearer of the fillet hath been dishonored, granteth thee 
thy desire. 
Apollo disappears. Chryses stands a moment amazed. 
Chryses. [In attitude of prayer] Mayest thou, O Far- 
darting Apollo, let fly thy arrows upon the Achaean host, 
and send a sore plague upon them, that the folk perish, 
because Atrides hath done dishonor to thy priest. 
Curtain 

Scene II 

The Quarrel 

Characters : 

Achilles. Nestor, and Other 
Agamemnon. Greek Chiefs. 

Calchas. Athene. 

Patroclus. Thetis. 

Heralds. Briseis. 

Talthybius. Eurybates. 

The setting is the same. The Greek chiefs are assembled 
in council. Achilles rises in their midst. 

Achilles. Son of Atreus, now deem I that we shall return 
wandering home again — if verily we might escape 
death — if war at once and pestilence must indeed ravage 
the Achaeans. But come, let us now inquire of some 



10 Dramatization [Second Year 

soothsayer or priest, yea, or an interpreter of dreams — 
seeing that a dream too is of Zeus — who shall say where- 
fore Phoebus Apollo is so wroth, whether he blame us 
by reason of vow or. hecatomb; if perchance he would 
accept the savor of lambs or unblemished goats, and so 
would take away the pestilence from us. 

Achilles takes his seat. Agamemnon speaks to Eury- 
bates, the Herald, ivho goes to Calchas, the seer, and delivers 
to him the scepter, the signal for him to address the Assembly. 

Calchas. [Rising and addressing Agamemnon] Atrides, 
king of men, thou biddest me tell the wrath of Apollo, 
the king that smiteth afar. Therefore will I speak. 
[Turning to Achilles] But do thou, O Peleus' son, make 
covenant with me, and swear that verily with all thy 
heart thou wilt aid me both by word and deed. For 
of a truth I deem that I shall provoke one that ruleth 
all the Argives with might, and whom the Achaeans 
obey. For a king is more of might when he is wroth 
with a meaner man; even though for one day he swallow 
his anger, yet doth he still keep his displeasure thereafter 
in his breast till he accomplish it. Consider thou, then, 
if thou wilt hold me safe. 

Achilles. [Risi?ig] Yea, be of good courage, speak 
whatever soothsaying thou knowest; for by Apollo dear 
to Zeus, him by whose worship thou,0 Calchas, declarest 
thy soothsaying to the Danaans, no man while I live and 
behold light on earth shall lay violent hands upon thee 
amid the hollow ships; no man of all the Danaans, not 
even if thou mean Agamemnon that now avoweth 
him to be greatest far of the Achaeans. 

Some of the warriors applaud Achilles' words. One of 
them rises and speaks. 

A Greek Chief. Speak thou in safety, as Achilles bids, 
O Calchas, Son of Thestor and the chief of augurs, one 



Second Year] The Iliad 11 

to whom are known things past and things to come; 
who, through the art of divination, which Apollo gave, 
once guided Iliumward the ships of Greece! 

Several in Chorus. Speak, son of Thestor! Speak! — 

Calchas. O Argive chiefs, Atrides and the rest, since 
it is the will of all, I will unfold the cause of Sminth- 
eus' rage against the Grecian camp. Neither by reason 
of a vow is he displeased, nor for any hecatomb, but for 
his priest's sake to whom Agamemnon did despite, and 
set not his daughter free and accepted not the ransom; 
therefore hath the Far- darter brought woes upon us, 
yea, and will bring. Nor will he ever remove the 
loathly pestilence from the Danaans till we have given 
the bright-eyed damsel to her father, unbought, unran- 

• somed, and carried a holy hecatomb to Chrysa; then 
might we propitiate him to our prayer. 

Calchas takes his seat. Agamemnon rises wrathfully, 
eyes sparkling with rage; he fixes a menacing look on 
Calchas. 

Agamemnon. Thou seer of evil, never yet hast thou told 
me the thing that is pleasant. Evil is ever the joy of thy 
heart to prophesy, but never yet didst thou tell any good 
matter nor bring it to pass. And now with soothsaying 
thou makest harangue among the Danaans, how that 
the Far-darter bringeth woes upon them because, for- 
sooth, I would not take the goodly ransom of the damsel 
Chryseis, seeing I am the rather fain to keep her ownself 
within mine house. Yet for all this will I give her back, 
if that is better; rather would I see my folk whole than 
perishing. [Applause] Only make ye me ready a prize 
of honor forthwith, lest I alone of all the Argives, be 
disprized which thing beseemeth not; for ye all behold 
how my prize is departing from me. 

The expression of faces in the Assembly changes from 



12 Dramatization [second Year 

relief to disappointment. As he sits down, he looks sig- 
nificantly at Achilles. 

Achilles. [Rising angrily] Most noble son of Atreus, of 
all men most covetous, how shall the great-hearted 
Achaeans give thee a meed of honor? We know naught 
of any wealth of common store, but what spoil soe 'er we 
took from captured cities hath been apportioned, and 
it beseemeth not to beg all this back from the folk. 
Nay, yield thou the damsel to the god, and we Achaeans 
will pay thee back threefold and fourfold, if ever Zeus 
grant us to sack some well-walled town of Troy-land. 

Agamemnon. [Scornfully] Not in this wise, strong as 
thou art, O godlike Achilles, beguile thou me by craft; 
thou shalt not outwit me nor persuade me. Dost thou 
wish, that thou mayest keep thy meed of honor, for me 
to sit idle in bereavement, and biddest me give her back? 
Nay, if the great-hearted Achaeans will give me a meed 
suited to my mind, that the recompense be equal — 
but if they give it not, then I, myself will go and take a 
meed of honor, thine be it, or Ajax's, or Odysseus', that I 
will take unto me; wroth shall he be to whomsoever I 
come. But for this we will take counsel hereafter. 

Achilles. [WrathfuUy] Ah me, thou clothed in shame- 
lessness, thou of crafty mind, how shall any Achaean 
hearken to thy bidding with all his heart, be it to go 
a journey or to fight the foe amain? Not by reason of 
the Trojan spearmen came I hither to fight, for they 
have not wronged me; never did they harry mine oxen 
nor my horses, nor ever waste my harvest in deep-soiled 
Phthia, the nurse of men ; seeing there lieth between us 
long space of shadowing mountains and sounding sea; 
but thee, thou shameless one, followed we hither to make 
thee glad, by earning recompense at the Trojans' hands 
for Menelaus and for thee, thou dog-face! All this 



Second Year] The Iliad 13 

thou reckonest not nor takest thought thereof; and now 
thou threatenest thyself to take my meed of honor, 
wherefore I travailed much, and the sons of the Achaeans 
gave it me. Never win I meed like unto thine, when 
the Achaeans sack any populous citadel of Trojan men; 
my hands bear the brunt of furious war, but when the 
apportioning cometh, then is thy meed far ampler, and 
I betake me to the ships with some small thing, yet mine 
own, when I have fought to weariness. Now will I 
depart to Phthia, seeing it is far better to return home 
on my beaked ships; nor am I minded here in dishonor 
to draw thee thy fill of riches and wealth. 

Achilles strides wrathfully away from Agamemnon, but 
pauses and turns at Agamemnon s first words. 
Agamemnon. Yea, flee, if thy soul be set thereon. It is 
not I that beseech thee to tarry for my sake; I have 
others by my side that shall do me honor, and above all, 
Zeus, lord of counsel. Most hateful art thou to me of 
all kings, fosterlings of Zeus; thou ever lovest strife and 
wars and fightings. Though thou be very strong, yet 
that I ween, is a gift to thee of God. Go home with thy 
ships and company and lord it among thy Myrmidons; 
I reck not aught of thee nor care I for thine indignation; 
and this shall be my threat to thee: seeing Phoebus 
Apollo bereaveth me of Chryseis, her with my ship 
and my company will I send back; and mine own self 
will I go to thy hut and take Briseis of the fair cheeks, 
even that thy meed of honor, that thou mayest well 
know how far greater I am than thou, and so shall 
another hereafter abhor to match his words with mine 
and rival me to my face. 

He turns abruptly to the Assembly to give directions for 
the return of Chryseis, while Achilles on the opposite side 
of the stage, stands debating, with growing anger, hand on 



14 Dramatization 



[Second Year 



sword, whether or not to 'push bach the rest and smite 
Agamemnon. During this time, Agamemnon speaks to 
the Assembly. 

Come, now let us launch a black ship on the great sea, 
and gather picked oarsmen, and set therein a hecatomb, 
and embark Chryseis of the fair cheeks, herself, and let 
one of our counsellors be captain, [turning to each, as 
he mentions their names] Ajax or Idomeneus or goodly 
Odysseus, or thou, Pelides [to Achilles] most redoubtable 
of men, to do sacrifice for us and propitiate the Far-darter. 
Achilles clutches his sword more firmly. Agamemnon 
scornfully turns his back on Achilles, and continues talking 
with the Greek chiefs, who have left their seats and gathered 
about Agamemnon. Meanwhile Athene suddenly appears 
from an entrance near Achilles, coming up from behind, 
just as Achilles starts forward to attack Agamemnon. She 
stays his hand as he draws his sword. Achilles turns in 
wonder. 

Achilles. [In awed tones] Why now art thou come 
hither, thou daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus? Is it to 
behold the insolence of Agamemnon, son of Atreus? 
Yea, I will tell thee that I deem shall even be brought 
to pass: by his own haughtinesses shall he soon lose 
his life. 

He again starts toward Agamemnon. Athene gently 
draics him back. 

Athene. I came from heaven to stay thine anger, if 
perchance thou wilt hearken to me, being sent forth of 
the white-armed goddess Juno that loveth you twain 
alike and careth for you. Go to now, cease from strife, 
and let not thine hand draw the sword; yet with words 
indeed revile him, even as it shall come to pass. For 
thus will I say to thee, and so it shall be fulfilled; here- 
after shall goodly gifts come to thee, yea in threefold 



Second Year] The Iliad 15 

measure, by reason of this despite; hold thou thine hand, 
and hearken to us. 
Achilles. Goddess, needs must a man observe the saying 
of you twain, even though he be very wroth at heart; 
for so is the better way. Whosoever obeyeth the gods, 
to him they gladly hearken. 

He thrusts his sword back into its sheath as Athene dis- 
appears behind the scene. Achilles stands looking toward the 
entrance where Athene disappeared, repeating meditatively, 
"Whosoever obeyeth the gods, to him they gladly hearken." 
Then with a sudden return of his wrath, he turns to 
Agamemnon, giving vent to his rage. They meet in the 
center-front of the stage. Agamemnon turns at Achilles' 
first words. Patroclus enters while Achilles is speaking, 
{cue, "Far better booteth it") and stands apart, intent 
on Achilles' words. 

Thou heavy with wine, thou with face of dog and heart 
of deer, never didst thou take courage to arm for battle 
among thy folk or to lay ambush with the princes of the 
Achaeans; that to thee were even as death. Far better 
booteth it, forsooth, to seize for thyself the meed of 
honor of every man through the wide host of the Achaeans 
that speaketh contrary to thee. Folk-devouring king! 
seeing thou rulest men of naught; else were this despite, 
thou son of Atreus, thy last. But I will speak my word 
to thee, and swear a mighty oath therewith: verily — 
by this staff that shall no more put forth leaf or twig, 
seeing it hath for ever left its trunk among the hills, 
neither shall it grow green again, because the axe hath 
stripped it of leaves and bark; and now the sons of the 
Achaeans that exercise judgment bear it in their hands, 
even they that by Zeus' commands watch over the 
traditions — so shall this be a mighty oath in thine eyes — 
verily shall longing for Achilles come hereafter upon the 



16 Dramatization [second Year 

sons of the Achaeans, one and all; and then wilt thou in 
no wise avail to save them, for all thy grief, when 
multitudes fall dying before man-slaying Hector. Then 
shalt thou tear thy heart within thee for anger that 
thou didst in no wise honor the best of the Achaeans. 

Achilles flings his gold-studded wand to the ground at 
the feet of Agamemnon and takes his seat in the Assembly 
once more. He is joined by Patroclus who sits by him, and 
throws his arm about his shoidder. In the meantime 
Agamemnon starts toward Achilles, fierce with rage, but 
is restrained by the aged Xestor, who rises and motions 
him back into his seat. 
Nestor. Alas, of a truth sore lamentation cometh upon 
the land of Achaia. Verily Priam would be glad and 
Priam's sons, and all the Trojans would have great joy 
of heart, were they to hear all this tale of strife between 
you twain that are chiefest of the Danaans in counsel 
and chiefest in battle. Nay, hearken to me; ye are 
younger both than I. Of old days held I converse with 
better men even than you, and never did they make 
light of me. Yea, I never beheld such warriors, nor shall 
behold. Mightiest of growth were they of all men upon 
the earth; mightiest were they and with the mightiest 
fought they; and with them could none of men that are 
now on earth do battle. And they laid to heart my 
counsels, and hearkened to my voice. Even so, hearken 
ye also, for better is it to hearken. [To Agamemnon] 
Neither do thou, though thou art very great, seize from 
him his damsel, but leave her as she was given at the first 
by the sons of the Achaeans to be a meed of honor; 
[turning to Achilles] nor do thou, son of Peleus, think to 
strive with a king, might against might; seeing that no 
common honor pertaineth to a sceptred king to whom 
Zeus apportioneth glory. Though thou be strong, and a 



Second Year] 



The Iliad 17 



goddess mother bare thee, yet his is the greater place, 
for he is king over more. [To Agamemnon] And thou, 
Atrides, abate thy fury; nay, it is even I that beseech 
thee to let go thine anger with Achilles, who is made 
unto all the Achaeans a mighty bulwark of evil war. 

Agamemnon. Yea verily, old man, all this thou sayest 
is according unto right. But this fellow would be above 
all others, he would be lord of all and king among all and 
captain to all; wherein I deem none will hearken to him. 
Though the immortal gods made him a spearman, do 
they therefore put revilings in his mouth for him to 
utter? 

Achilles. [Who has shown great impatience, now starts for- 
ward. Nestor lays his hand upon his shoidder, but Achilles 
gently pushes him aside, even in his wrath against Aga- 
memnon showing respect for the aged Nestor. — To Nestor] 
Nay, stay me not ! for I should be called coward and man 
of naught, if I yield to him in every matter, howsoe'er 
he bid. [To Agamemnon] To others give now thine 
orders, not to me play master; for thee I deem that 
I shall no more obey. This, moreover, will I say to thee, 
and do thou lay it to thy heart. Know that not by 
violence will I strive for the damsel's sake, neither with 
thee nor any other; ye gave and ye have taken away. 
But of all else that is mine, beside my fleet black ship, 
thereof shalt thou not take anything or bear it away 
against my will. Yea, go to now, make trial that all 
these may see; forthwith thy dark blood shall gush 
about my spear. 

Achilles turns to go and is joined by Patroclus. Aga- 
memnon rises, dismissing the Assembly with a motion of 
his scepter, but beckons to his two heralds, Talthybius and 
Eurybates, who remain, as the other chiefs go out in different 
directions. 



18 Dramatization [second Year 

Agamemnon. [To Heralds] Go ye to the tent of Achilles, 
Peleus' son, and take Briseis of the fair cheeks by the 
hand and lead her hither; and if he give her not, then will 
I myself go, and more with me, and seize her; and that 
will be yet more grievous for him. 

As Agamemnon sits in meditation, awaiting the return 
of the messengers with Briseis, Thetis appears, clad in 
sparkling silvery robes suggesting sea mists. Agamemnon 
starts, rises, and gazes ivith awe upon her. 

Agamemnon. Whence comest thou, and art thou indeed, 
as thou seemest, one of the immortals? 

Thetis. Yea, an immortal am I, goddess mother of Achil- 
les, lamentable beyond all men! Him I left sorrowing 
beside his hut and black ship; to thee I come in an evil 
hour bearing a mother's curse. And I go hence to 
snow-clad Olympus, to tell to Zeus the grievous woe thou 
hast brought upon Peleus' son, and think to win him. 

As Thetis disappears, the messengers enter, leading 
Briseis. The curtain goes down as Agamemnon turns to 
greet her. 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 19 

THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS 

James Fenimore Cooper 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The three scenes selected from Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans are 
based on chaps, xviii, xxviii, xxix, xxx, and xxxiii. The scene of the 
council is very much condensed. The incident of the trial of skill with 
the rifle between Heyward and Hawkeye has been wholly eliminated as 
impracticable under high school conditions; many of the speeches have 
been cut; and the parting between Alice and Cora has been reduced to 
pantomime because it would approach dangerously near to the melo- 
dramatic in the hands of the average high school pupil. 

Since, in selecting scenes from The Last of the Mohicans, all those 
which involve fighting (a characteristic feature of the story) must be 
eliminated, the device of introducing the Spirit of the Mohicans, to 
serve the purpose of Chorus, as in the Greek drama, has been adopted. 
In this capacity, he suggests briefly the main events of the first seven- 
teen chapters of the novel, in the Prologue; covers the period of the 
search from chap, xix through chap, xxviii, in the first Interlude; bridges 
over the story from chap, xxxi through xxxii and part of xxxiii, in the 
second Interlude, and rounds out the play with an Epilogue. A long, 
involved narrative is thus materially condensed, without too great 
sacrifice, and three widely scattered scenes are made into a compact 
dramatic unit. To differentiate the Chorus from the actors in the 
play itself his speeches are written in verse; the meter of Hiawatha has 
been chosen for its obvious appropriateness. These lines may be 
delivered in front of the curtain, or with the curtain raised, at will. 

The characteristic features of the Indian costume are so well known, 
and the materials so easily obtainable, that the costuming of the Indians 
in the play will not be a difficult problem. In the council of the Dela- 
wares, the various tribes may be distinguished by touches suggestive of 
the tribal name: Hawk, Deer, Bear, Big Snake, Wolf, etc. The totem 
of the Mohicans, the tortoise, should be the distinctive mark of Uncas 
and Chingachgook. The dress of the Spirit of the Mohicans should be 
that of a Mohican warrior, somewhat etherealized: a soft misty gray, 
with touches of white, will give the desired effect. The costume of the 
Scout is fully described in Cooper's text. To reproduce the English 
officers' uniform of the Colonial Period with historical accuracy may 



20 Dramatization [second Year 

be difficult, but as the scenes in which Heyward and Munro appear 
follow scenes of forest tramping or hard fighting, the costumes may be 
modified to meet the situation. The closing scene demands one or 
more French officers in trim uniforms. These of course must be 
historically correct and may require the help of costumers. 

Prologue 
Spirit of the Mohicans 

Spirit of the great Mohicans — 
Earth-bound till the last brave warriors, 
Chingachgook and agile Uncas, 
Seek the Happy Hunting Grounds — 
I am sent to you with tidings, 
Tidings drear, of wile and bloodshed; 
Treachery of vengeful Magua; 
Loyalty of brave Mohican. 
Listen to the direful tidings! 

At the dawn, the hour of silence, 
Forth the serpent Magua led them: 
Forth he led the youthful warrior, 
Led the aged chieftain's daughters, 
Dark-eyed Cora, quiet, thoughtful, 
Blue-eyed Alice, full of sunshine. 
Light of heart, they followed after, 
Thinking of their distant father, 
Thinking how they soon would meet him; 
How his care-worn face would brighten, 
When they came within the fortress. 

But the Huron, full of hatred, 
Led them into many dangers, 
Ere they reached the longed-for portals 
Of the fort beside the waters, 
Where their father sadly waited, 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 21 

Waited vainly for assistance, 
While the enemy, the Frenchman, 
Close and closer pressed upon him, 
Bringing dread disaster nearer! 

But the aged warrior's daughters, 
Rescued by the brave Mohicans, 
And their friend, the dauntless Hawkeye, 
From the hand of hated Huron, 
Came at last to cheer their father, 
Cheer him in his hour of peril. 

Short-lived was their hearts' rejoicing: 
They must leave the shelt 'ring fortress ! 
Forth they marched, the "pale-face" warriors; 
In the rear the sick and wounded; 
Women, children, at the mercy 
Of the lurking Iroquois ! 
And the watchful Magua saw them, 
Saw the daughters of Munro ! 
Then amidst the awful slaughter 
That o'ertook the helpless band, 
Crafty Magua bore the sisters 
O'er the pathless wilderness! — 

But I hear the friendly footsteps 
Of the last of the Mohicans! 
Chingachgook and clear-eyed Uncas 
Follow closely on his trail — 
On the trail of cruel Magua! 
Silently I follow after, — 
Like the mist of mighty waters — 
Where the brave Mohicans lead. 



22 Dramatization [second Year 

Scene I 

The Search 

Characters : 
Chingachgook, a Mohican Chief. 
Uncas, his Son. 
Hawkeye, the Scout. 
Colonel Munro, an English Officer. 
Major Hey ward, an English Officer. 

The stage represents an opening in the forest, with a 
background of trees. Here and there, forming a trail winding 
back and forth across the stage, are bushes of different heights. 
The floor is strewn with dried leaves. The movement along 
the trail must be slow, and the action, as the searchers discover 
the various signs of the passing of the sisters and their captor 
at different points on the trail, must be carefully planned with 
reference to the stage setting, to create the illusion. If the 
scene is given out of doors, the solution of the problem will be 
less difficult. As the curtain rises, Uncas, Chingachgook, 
Hawkeye, Munro, and Heyward enter left. 

Uncas. [Pointing to a tree close at hand] Hugh! 

Hawkeye. [Cautiously] What is it, boy? God send it 
be a tardy Frencher, skulking for plunder. I do believe 
"Killdeer" would take an uncommon range today! 

Uncas, without replying, bounds away, and in the next 
instant is seen tearing from the branches of the tree, a 
fragment of the green riding-veil of Cora. As he cries out, 
the whole party gather about him. 

Munro. [Wildly] My child! Give me my child! 

Uncas. [Gently] Uncas will try. 

The father seizes the piece of gauze, crushes it in his 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 23 

hand, and looks fearfully about him as if expecting to see 
the body of his daughter. 

Hey ward. Here are no dead; the storm seems not to have 
passed this way. 

Hawkeye. [Calmly] That's manifest, and clearer than 
the heavens above our heads, but either she, or they 
that have robbed her, have passed the bush; for I 
remember the rag she wore to hide a face that all did 
love to look upon. Uncas, you are right; the dark-hair 
has been here and she has fled, like a frightened fawn, 
to the wood; none who could fly would remain to be 
murdered. Let us search for the marks she left; for to 
Indian eyes I sometimes think even a humming-bird 
leaves his trail in the air. [Uncas darts away, looking 
closely at each bush, and examining the ground for foot- 
prints. Suddenly he utters a cry, and holds up another 
fragment of the veil which he has found on a bush a little 
farther on the trail. Hey ward starts eagerly forward, but the 
Scout holds him back, extending his rifle to stop his progress] 
Softly, softly, we now know our work, but the beauty of 
the trail must not be deformed. A step too soon may 
give us hours of trouble. We have them, though; that 
much is beyond denial. 

Munro. Bless ye, bless ye, worthy man! Whither, then, 
have they fled, and where are my babes? 

Hawkeye. The path they have taken depends on many 
chances. If they have gone alone, they are quite as 
likely to move in a circle as straight, and they may be 
within a dozen miles of us; but if the Hurons, or any of 
the French Indians, have laid hands on them, 'tis prob- 
able they are now near the borders of the Canadas. 

Munro. [Changing from hope to disappointment] Alas! 

Hey ward. [Eagerly] Is there not a chance that we may 
overtake them? 



24 Dramatization [second Year 

Hawkeye. Ay, my lad. Here are the Mohicans and I 
on one end of the trail, and, rely on it, we find the 
other, though they should be a hundred leagues asunder. 
[To Uncas, who moves about, impatient of delay] Gently, 
gently, Uncas, you are as impatient as a man in the 
settlements; you forget that light feet leave but faint 
marks ! 

Chixgachgook. [Who in the meantime has been examining 
an opening in the bushes, standing erect and pointing 
downward] Hugh! 

Heyward. [Bending over the spot] Here is the palpable 
impression of the footstep of a man; the mark cannot 
be mistaken. They are captives. 

Hawkeye. Better so than left to starve in the wilder- 
ness, and they will leave a wider trail. I would wager 
fifty beaver skins against as many flints that the Mohi- 
cans and I enter their wigwams within the month! 
Stoop to it, Uncas, and try what you can make of the 
moccasin; for moccasin it plainly is, and no shoe. 

Uncas bends over the track, removes the scattered leaves, 
examines it closely, and then rises from his knees with a 
satisfied expression on his face. 

Hawkeye. [Who has been observing him attentively] Well, 
boy, what does it say? Can you make anything of the 
tell-tale? 

Uncas. Le Renard Subtil! 

Munro and Heyward look startled. Chingachgook is 
unmoved. 

Hawkeye. [Patting his rifle significantly] Ha! that ram- 
paging devil again! There never will be an end of his 
loping till "Killdeer" has said a friendly word to 
him. 

Heyward. [Hopefully] One moccasin is so much like an- 
other, it is probable there is some mistake. 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 25 

Hawkeye. One moccasin like another! You may as well 
say that one foot is like another; though we all know 
that some are long, and others short; some broad, and 
others narrow; some with high, and some with low in- 
steps; some in-toed, and some out. One moccasin is no 
more like another than one book is like another; though 
they who can read in one are seldom able to tell the 
marks of the other. Which is all ordered for the best, 
giving to every man his natural advantages. Let mej 
get down to it, Uncas ; neither book nor moccasin is the 
worse for having two opinions, instead of one. [Exam- 
ines the track carefully] You are right, boy; here is the 
patch we saw so often in the other chase. And the fel- 
low will drink when he can get an opportunity; your 
drinking Indian always learns to walk with a wider toe 
than the natural savage, it being the gift of a drunkard 
to straddle, whether of white or red skin. 'Tis just the 
length and breadth, too! [Turning to Chingachgook] 
Look at it, Sagamore; you measured the prints more 
than once, when we hunted the varmints from Glenn's 
to the health-springs. 

Chingachgook. [Stooping to examine the footprint, then 

. rising quietly] Magua! 

Hawkeye. Ay, 'tis a settled thing; here then have passed 
the dark-hair and Magua. 

Hey ward. [Anxiously] And not Alice? 

Hawkeye. [Looking closely around at the trees, hushes, and 
ground] Of her we have not yet seen the signs. [Sud- 
denly pointing to a bush a little farther to the right] What 
have we there? Uncas, bring hither the thing you see 
dangling from yonder thorn-bush. [Uncas obeys quickly 
and returns with a pitch-pipe. The Scout holds it 
up, laughing quietly] 'Tis the tooting we'pon of the 
singer! Now we shall have a trail a priest might 



26 Dramatization [second Year 

travel. Uncas, look for the marks of a shoe that is long 
enough to uphold six feet two of tottering human flesh. 
I begin to have some hopes of the fellow, since he has 
given up squalling to follow some better trade. 

Heyward. At least, he has been faithful to his trust, and 
Cora and Alice are not without a friend. 

Hawkeye. [Leaning on his rifle — with an air of contempt] 
Yes, he will do their singing! Can he slay a buck for 
their dinner, journey by the moss on the beeches, or 
cut the throat of a Huron? If not, the first catbird he 
meets is the cleverest of the two. [To Uncas who has 
been searching for David's footprint] Well, boy, any 
signs of such a foundation? 

Heyward. [Who has also been searching during Hawkeye' s 
last speech] Here is something like the footstep of one 
who has worn a shoe; can it be that of our friend? 

Hawkeye. [Coming forward quickly] Touch the leaves 
lightly, or you '11 disconsart the formation. That ! That 
is the print of a foot, but 'tis the dark-hair's; and small 
it is, too, for one of such a noble height and grand 
appearance. The singer would cover it with his heel. 

Muxro. [Excitedly, shoring the bushes aside and bending 
over the track] Where! Let me look on the footsteps 
of my child. 

Heyward. [Trying to divert the old mans grief] As we 
now possess these infallible signs, let us commence our 
march. A moment, at such a time, will appear an age 
to the captives. 

Hawkeye. [Glancing at first one, then another of the marks 
that have been discovered] It is not the swiftest-leaping 
deer that gives the longest chase. We know that the 
rampaging Huron has passed, — and the dark-hair, — 
and the singer, — but where is she of the yellow locks 
and blue eyes? Though little, and far from being as 



second year] The Last of the Mohicans 27 

bold as her sister, she is fair to the view and pleasant 
in discourse. Has she no friend, that none care for her? 

Heyward. God forbid she should ever want hundreds! 
Are we not in her pursuit? For one, I will never cease 
the search till she is found. 

Hawkeye. In that case we may have to journey by 
different paths; for here she has not passed, light and little 
as her footstep would be. There is no woman in this 
wilderness could leave such a print as that [Pointing 
to the footprint] but the dark-hair or her sister. We 
know that the first has been here, but where are the 
signs of the other? We must look more closely at the 
trail and if nothing offers, we must go back to the plain 
and strike another scent. Move on, Uncas, and keep 
your eyes on the dried leaves. I will watch the bushes, 
while your father shall run with a low nose to the ground. 
They resume the search in silence. 

Heyward. Is there nothing I can do? 

Hawkeye. You! Yes, you can keep in our rear, and be 
careful not to cross the trail. 

Uncas and Chingachgook stop, look at the ground, and 
then at each other, in mutual satisfaction. 

Hawkeye. [Moving forward] They have found the little 
foot! — [On nearer view] — What have we here? By the 
truest rifle on the frontiers, here have been them one- 
sided horses again! Now the whole secret is out, and 
all is plain as the north star at midnight! Yes, here 
they have mounted. There the beasts have been bound 
to a sapling, in waiting; and yonder runs the broad path 
away to the north, in full sweep for the Canadas. 

Heyward. But still there are no signs of Alice — of the 
younger Miss Munro! 

Hawkeye. [Looking in the direction of Uncas, who holds 
in his hand a shining jewel] Unless the shining bauble 



28 Dramatization [second Year 

Uncas has just lifted from the ground should prove one. 
Pass it this way, lad, that we may look at it. 

Heyward. [Excitedly seizing the jewel] It is hers! I saw 
it on her neck the morning we left the fort ! — I '11 keep 
it to deliver to her at the end of the trail! — Let us 
hasten! — Why do we delay longer? 

Hawkeye. Young blood and hot blood, they say, are 
much the same thing. We are not about to start on a 
squirrel hunt, or to drive a deer into the Horican, but 
to outlie for days and nights, and to stretch across a 
wilderness where the feet of men seldom go, and where 
no bookish knowledge would carry you through harm- 
less. An Indian never starts on such an expedition 
without smoking over his council-fire; and, though a 
man of white blood, I honor their customs in this 
particular, seeing that they are deliberate and 
wise. We will, therefore, go back, and light our fire 
tonight in the ruins of the old tort, and in the 
morning we shall be fresh and ready to undertake 
our work like men, and not like babbling women or 
eager boys. 

Uncos springs lightly ahead, followed by Chingackgook. 
Heyward takes the arm of Munro, who has been leaning 
against a tree in a sort of lethargy, and Hawkeye brings 
up tJie rear. 

( iirtain 

First Interlude 

Spirit of the Mohicans 

Honor to the brave Mohicans, 
And the ever-faithful Hawkeye! 
Northward moving through the forest, 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 

Cautiously they cut their pathway, 
Oft in danger from the arrows 
Of the hostile Mingo warriors. 
Near the Canadas they tracked him, 
Tracked the wily reptile, Magua! 

As they skirted round the outposts 
Of the hated Huron chieftain, 
There they found within the forest, 
David, captive of the Huron. 
Soon the story he had told them 
Of the gentle sisters' capture; 
Of the journey to the northward; 
How the younger sister languished 
In the camp they saw before them, 
Parted from the dark-eyed Cora, 
Wearily her fate awaiting, 
In the Delaware encampment. 

When they heard the singer's story, 
Knew the sisters safe, though captive, 
They rejoiced — but did not tarry; 
For they knew the dangers lurking, 
Knew the hatred which the Huron 
Bore the daughters' aged father! 

Long the story — swift the action: 
Alice borne by Duncan Heyward 
From the cave where she had sorrowed; 
Uncas, rescued for the moment 
From the cruel Magua's power, 
By the ever-faithful Hawkeye. 

But no more — in silence moving 
They are coming to the council. 
Come with me ! I follow after 
To the council of the chieftains, 
Chieftains of the Delawares. 



V Escorts of Tamenund. 



30 Dramatization [second Year 

Scene II 

The Council of the Dela wares 

Characters : 
Hard Heart, a Delaware Chief. 
Tamenund, a Delaware Patriarch. 

Second Chief) 

Magna, a Huron Chief. 

Uncas. 

Hawkey e. 

Alice. 

Cora. 

Major Hey ward. 

David Gamut, the Singer. 

Delaware Chiefs, Squaws, and Boys. 

The stage represents a clearing in the icoods, on the out- 
skirts of the Delaware encampment. The same background 
may be used as in scene i. In the rear-center, on a platform 
raised the height of two steps above the ground, is a rudely 
constructed throne for the presiding chief, with a seat to right and 
left. Ranged on either side, somewhat irregularly, but preserving 
the general outline of a semi-circle, are a number of low seats, sug- 
gestive of stumps of trees and irregularities in the ground, for the 
chiefs in council. Openings for entrances, and space in the 
rear, for the passing of squaws and Indian boys at play, are left. 
By this arrangement, which departs somewhat from thehistorical 
accounts of Indian councils, the center of the stage is free for the 
action. As the curtain rises, Magua is presenting the last of a 
number of gifts, which he has been distributing among a small 
group of Delaware chiefs gathered about him. Curious squaws, 
passing back and forth during the dialogue, and boys at play, 
stop now and then to peer at the gifts. 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 31 

Hard Heart. My brother is a wise chief. He is welcome. 

Magua. The Hurons love their friends the Delawares. 
Why should they not? They are colored by the same 
sun, and their just men will hunt in the same grounds 
after death. The redskins should be friends, and look 
with open eyes on the white men. — Has not my brother 
scented spies in the woods? 

Hard Heart. There have been strange moccasins about 
my camp. They have been tracked into my lodges. 

Magua. Did my brother beat out the dogs? 

Hard Heart. It would not do. The stranger is always 
welcome to the children of the Lenape. 

Magua. The stranger, but not the spy. The Yengeese 
have sent out their scouts. They have been in my wig- 
wams, but they found there no one to say welcome. 
Then they fled to the Delawares — for, say they, the 
Delawares are our friends; their minds are turned from 
their Canada father! 

Hard Heart and the other Delaware chiefs lose their 
native calm for a moment, and their faces show a sugges- 
tion of anger at this insinuation. They quickly recover 
their poise, however. Magua watches them intently. 

Hard Heart. Let my father look in my face; he will see 
no change. It is true, my young men did not go out on 
the war-path; they had dreams for not doing so. But 
they love and venerate the great white chief. 

Magua. Will he think so when he hears that his greatest 
enemy is fed in the camp of his children? When he is told a 
bloody Yengee smokes at your fire? That the pale face who 
has slain so many of his friends goes in and out among 
the Delawares ? Go ! My great Canada father is not a fool ! 
The Delaware chiefs show signs of excitement by looking 
at each other, though the expression of their faces scarcely 
changes. Hard Heart is the first to recover. 



32 Dramatization [second Year 

Hard Heart. Where is the Yengee that the Delawares 
fear? Who has slain my young men? Who is the 
mortal enemy of my Great Father? 

Magua. [In a low, but penetrating voice] La Longue 
Carabine ! 

The Delaware warriors start at this well-known name. 
The squaws pause in their labors to listen with interest. 
A boy running in the rear, stops suddenly, intent upon 
the words of Magua. 

Hard Heart. [Betraying his excitement} What does my 
brother mean? 

Magua. A Huron never lies! [Standing erect, with arms 
folded across his cheat, and glaring toward the opening 
in the trees, in the direction of the camp] Let the Dela- 
wares count their prisoners; they will find one whose 
skin is neither red n<>r pale. 

Hard Heart summons, with a gesture, three of the 
Indian youths who have approached during the dialogue 
and whispers to them. Then they dart out quickly in different 
directions. 

Hard Heart. [To Magua] The Delawares must take 
council. I have spread the word. 

One by one, the chiefs enter, and seat themselves, glanc- 
ing at Magua, who stands immovable, as they assemble 
Squaws gather in the background and groups of boys sit 
on the ground here and tliere, outside of the circle of chiefs. 
Low guttural mutterings are heard. When they are all 
seated, three aged men appear at the entrance on one side 
of the stage. The central figure is the oldest, — a patriarch 
of great age. His face is wrinkled; his long, white hair is 
encircled with a glittering diadem and adorned with black 
ostrich plumes. Medals cover his breast. His weapons, 
the tomahawk and knife, glisten with jewels. The assembled 
company rise on his entrance and stand in an attitude of 



second year] The Last of the Mohicans 33 

veneration, as he is 'escorted to the throne. Whispers of 
''Tamenund" are heard. Magna shows his interest by 
stepping forward to get a nearer view. When Tamenund 
is seated, with his companions on either side, the chief on 
his right hand rises, signals the company to be seated, and 
resumes his seat. At this moment, under escort of Dela- 
ware warriors, Cora and Alice enter, closely followed by 
Hey ward and Hawkey e. David Gamut brings up the 
rear. The prisoners are escorted into the open space 
in front of the throne. During the first part of the scene, 
Tamenund sits, with closed eyes, oblivious of his sur- 
roundings. During the gathering of the chiefs, strains of 
Indian music may be softly played. 

First Chief. [At Tamenund's right] Which of the 
prisoners is La Longue Carabine? 

Neither Heyward nor Hawkeye answers. Heyward looks 
around the assembly, and starts slightly, when his eye falls 
upon Magna. 

Second Chief. [In a clearer voice] Which of the pris- 
oners is La Longue Carabine? 

Heyward. [Haughtily stepping forward] Give us arms 
and place us in yonder woods. Our deeds shall speak 
for us! 

First Chief. [Regarding Heyward with some interest] 
This is the warrior whose name has filled our ears! 
What has brought the white man into the camp of the 
Delawares? 

Heyward. My necessities. I come for food, shelter, and 
friends. 

First Chief. It cannot be. The woods are full of game. 
The head of a warrior needs no other shelter than a sky 
without clouds; and the Delawares are the enemies, and 
not the friends of the Yengeese. Go! The mouth has 
spoken, while the heart said nothing. 



34 Dramatization [second Year 

Hawkeye. [Approaching, stands in front of the two chiefs 
and Tamenund, with his rifle slung across his shoulder] 
That I did not answer to the call for La Longue Carabine 
was not owing either to shame or fear, for neither one nor 
the other is the gift of an honest man. But I do not admit 
the right of the Mingoes to bestow a name on one whose 
friends have been mindful of his gifts, in this particular; 
especially as their title is a lie, "Killdeer" being a grooved 
barrel and no carabyne. I am the man, however, that 
got the name of Nathaniel from my kin; the compliment 
of Hawkeye from the Delawares, who live on their own 
river; and whom the Iroquois have presumed to style 
the "Long Rifle," without any warranty from him who 
is most concerned in the matter. 

The two chiefs look puzzled, as they glance from Hawk- 
eye to Heyward. The eyes of the assembly arc directed 
toward Hawkeye, displaying an interest unusual among 
chiefs in council. 

First Chief. [Looking toward Magna] My brother lias 
said that a snake crept into my camp. Which is he? 
Magna points to Hawkeye. 

Heyward. Will a wise Delaware believe the barking of 
a wolf? A dog never lies, but when was a wolf known 
to speak the truth? 

Magua. [Starts forward as if to answer, a flash of anger in 
his face; then resumes his former position, turning toward 
the chief] The Huron never lies. Magua has spoken. 
There stands La Longue Carabine. 

First Chief. It is good. Brother, the Delawares listen. 
Magua, tJius challenged to declare his purpose, takes his 
place on the step of the platform, in front of the three aged 
chiefs and facing the assembly. 

Magua. The Spirit that made men colored them differ- 
ently. Some he made with faces paler than the 



second year] The Last of the Mohicans 35 

ermine of the forests; and these he ordered to be 
traders — dogs to their women, and wolves to their 
slaves. He gave this people the nature of the pigeon; 
wings that never tire, and appetites to devour the earth. 
He gave them tongues like the false call of the wild-cat, 
hearts like rabbits, and arms longer than the legs of the 
moose. With his tongue he stops the ears of the Indians ; 
his heart teaches him to pay warriors to fight his bat- 
tles; his cunning tells him how to get together the goods 
of the earth; and his arms inclose the land from the 
shores of the salt-water to the islands of the great lake. 
God gave him enough, and yet he wants all. Such are 
the palefaces. Some the Great Spirit made with skins 
brighter and redder than the sun. If the Great Spirit 
gave different tongues to his red children, [in a 
low, melancholy voice] it was that all animals might 
understand them. Some he placed near the setting sun, 
on the road to the happy hunting-grounds; some on the 
lands around the great fresh waters; but to his greatest, 
and most beloved, he gave the sands of the salt lake. 
Do my brothers know the name of this favored people? 

Several Voices. It was the Lenape! 

Magtja. It was the tribes of the Lenape ! But why should 
I, a Huron of the woods, tell a wise people their own 
traditions? Why remind them of their injuries; their 
ancient greatness; their deeds; their glory; their happi- 
ness — their losses; their defeats; their misery? Is there 
not one among them who has seen it all, and who knows 
it to be true? [Turning to Tamenund] I have done. 
My tongue is still, for my heart is of lead* I listen. 
[Steps down and goes a short distance away] 

As Magna speaks, Tamenund betrays signs of con- 
sciousness for the first time, and raises his head once or 
twice, as if to listen. When the name of his nation is 



36 Dramatization [second Year 

spoken, the old man's eyelids open and he looks out upon 
the assembly with dull eyes. When Magua's voice ceases, 
he struggles to rise and is supported by his two companions. 

Tamenund. [In a deep, guttural voice] Who calls upon 
the children of the Lenape? 

Magua. [Approachijig the platform again] It is a Wyan- 
dot; a friend of Tamenund. 

Tamenund. [Frowning] A friend! Are the Mingoes rulers 
of the earth? What brings a Huron here? 

Magua. Justice. His prisoners arc with his brothers, and 
he comes for his own. 

Tamenund. Justice is the law of the great Manitou. My 
children, give the stranger food. Then, Huron, take 
thine own and depart. 

As these words are spoken, two young warriors step 
quickly behind Hawkey e, and hind him with thongs before 
he can resist. Magna, with a malicious look toward Cora, 
'xes Allc<\ and beckons Hey ward to follow, but Cora, to 
Magua's surprise, instead of following, rushes toward the 
platform and throws herself at the Patriarch's feet. Magna 
stops, spell-bound for the moment. 

Cora. Just and venerable Delaware, on thy wisdom and 
power we lean for mercy! Be deal to yonder remorse- 
less monster who poisons thy ears with falsehoods to 
feed his thirst for blood! 

Tamenund. [Aroused again by Cora's voice, opening his 
eyes heavily] What art thou? 

Cora. A woman. One of a hated race, if thou wilt — a 
Yengee. But one who has never harmed thee, and who 
cannot harm thy people, if she would; who asks for 
succor. Art thou not Tamenund — the father — the 
judge of this people? 

Tamenund. I am Tamenund of many days. 

Cora. Tell me, is Tamenund a father? 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 37 

Tamenund. [Looking down with a benignant smile, and then 
turning his eyes toward the whole assembly] Of a nation. 

Cora. For myself I ask nothing. [Turning toward Alice] 
But yonder is one who has never known the weight of 
Heaven's displeasure until now. Save her to comfort 
an aged father's last days! Save her from that cruel 
villain! [Tamenund does not answer. Cora stands a 
moment with arms outstretched in appeal] There is yet 
one of thine own people who has not been brought 
before thee; before thou lettest the Huron depart in 
triumph, hear him speak. 

Tamenund looks doubtfully toward one of his companions. 

First Chief. It is a snake — a redskin in the pay of the 
Yengeese. We keep him for the torture. 

Tamenund. Let him come. 

The Second Chief beckons to a youth near the platform, 
to bring the prisoner. Silence falls on the assembly, as the 
messenger departs. All eyes are turned in the direction of 
his exit. The messenger returns quickly, followed by 
Uncas, tvho glances hastily about him; then, as his eye falls 
upon Tamenund, he steps forward, and stands erect before 
the platform. 

First Chief. [To Tamenund, who sits with closed eyes] 
The prisoner stands before thee. 

Tamenund. [Still with closed eyes] With what tongue 
does the prisoner speak to the Manitou? 

Uncas. Like his fathers, with the tongue of a Delaware. 
A hostile murmur runs through the assembly. 

Tamenund. A Delaware! I have lived to see the tribes 
of the Lenape driven from their council-fires, and scat- 
tered, like broken herds of deer, among the hills of the 
Iroquois, but never before have I found a Delaware so 
base as to creep, like a poisonous serpent, into the camps 
of his nation. 



38 Dramatization [second Year 

Uncas. [In a low, distinct, musical tone] The singing- 
birds have opened their bills, and Tamenund has heard 
their song. 

Tamenund starts and bends his head to listen, as if to 
strains of music. 

Tamenund. Does Tamenund dream! What voice is at 
his ear! Have the winters gone backward! Will sum- 
mer come again to the children of the Lenape! 

The assembly is awed, as at the voice of a prophet. 
Tamenund sinks into a lethargy again, but is aroused by 
the First Chief. 

First Chief. The false Delaware trembles lest he should 
hear the words of Tamenund. Tis a hound that howls 
when the Yengeese show him a trail. 

Uncas. [Looking sternly around him] And ye aredogs that 
whine, when the Frenchman casts ye the offals of his deer! 
Some of the warriors spring uj), brandishing knives, 
but are quieted at a signed from the Second Chief. 

TAMENUND. Delaware! Little art thou worthy of thy 
name. Hie warrior who deserts his tribe when hid in 
clouds is doubly a traitor. The law of the Manitou is 
just. He is thine, my children; deal justly by him. 

With a growl of vengeance, the warriors spring toward 
Uncas, but he leaps to one side, toivard the front of the stage, 
throws aside the skin which he wears, and reveals the tortoise, 
the totem of his tribe, painted on the front of his close-fitting 
jacket. The icarriors are awed, and stand back. Uncas 
draws himself up proudly and speaks with the air of a king. 

Uncas. Men of the Lenni Lenape! My race upholds the 
earth! Your feeble tribe stands on my shell! What 
fire that a Delaware can light would burn the child of 
my fathers? [Pointing proudly to the tortoise] The blood 
that came from such a stock would smother your flames ! 
My race is the grandfather of nations! 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 39 

Tamenund. [Rising excitedly] Who art thou? 

Uncas. [Bending his head toward Tamenund reverently] 
Uncas, the son of Chingachgook, a son of the great 
Unamis, of the tribe of the Tortoise. 

Tamenund. The hour of Tamenund is nigh! The day 
is come, at last, to the night ! I thank the Manitou that 
one is here to fill my place at the council-fire. Uncas, 
the child of Uncas, is found! Let the eyes of a dying 
eagle gaze on the rising sun. 

Uncas steps proudly upon the platform; Tamenund gazes 
intently upon the youth. 

Tamenund. Our wise men have often said that two war- 
riors of the unchanged race were in the hills of the Yen- 
geese. Why have their seats at the council-fires of the 
Delawares been so long empty? 

Uncas. [Raising his head, and lifting his voice so as to be 
heard by the assembly] Once we slept where we could 
hear the salt lake speak in its anger. Then we were 
rulers and sagamores over the land. But when a pale 
face was seen on every brook, we followed the deer back 
to the river of our nation. The Delawares were gone. 
Then said my fathers, "Here will we hunt. The waters 
of the river go into the salt lake. If we go toward the 
setting sun, we shall find streams that run into the great 
lakes of sweet water; there would a Mohican die, like 
fishes of the sea in the clear springs. When the Mani- 
tou is ready, and shall say 'Come,' we will follow the 
river to the sea, and take our own again." Such, Dela- 
wares, is the belief of the children of the Turtle. Our 
eyes are on the rising, and not toward the setting sun. 
We know whence he comes, but we know not whither 
he goes. It is enough. [Uncas, looking over the assembly 
from his elevated position, for the first time sees Hawkeye, 
bound. He steps down quickly, hastens to his friend, cuts 



40 Dramatization [second yc^ 

his bonds, and motions to the assembly to divide. They 
form a semi-circle as at first. Then he leads Hawkey e 
to the platform] Father, look at this pale face, a just 
man, and the friend of the Delawares. 

Tamenund. What name has lie gained by his deeds? 

Uncas. We call him Hawkeye; for his sight never fails, 
the Mingoes know him better as "The Long Rifle." 

Tamenund. [Sternly] La Longue Carabine! My son hast 
not done well to call him friend. 

Uncas. I call him so who proves himself such! 

TamENUND. The pale face has slain my young men; bis 
name is greal for tin- Mows he lias struck the Lenape. 

IIawkkyi:. If a Mingo has whispered that much in the 
car of the Delaware, lie lias only shown that he is a 
singing-bird. That I have slain the Maquas I am not the 
man to deny, even at their own council-fires; hut that, 

knowingly, my hand has ever harmed a Delaware, is 

opposed to the reason of my gifts, which is friendly to 

them, and all that belongs to their nation. 

Low murmurs qf <i pplause are limn/ among the warriors. 
Tami:m \i). Where is the Buron? lias he stopped my 

ears? 
Magua. [Coming forward] The just Tamenund will not 

keep what a Huron has lent. 
Tamenund. [Turning in Uncas] Tell me, son of my 

brother, has the stranger a conqueror's right over you? 
Uncas. He has none. The panther may get into snares" 

set by the women; but he is strong, and knows how to 

leap through them. 
Tamenund. La Longue Carabine? 
Uncas. Laughs at the Mingoes! 
Tamenund. The stranger and the white maiden that came 

into my camp together? 
Uncas. Should journey on an open path. 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 41 

Tamenund. And the woman that the Huron left with my 

warriors? [Uncas bows his head sadly, and is silent. 

Tamenund repeats] And the woman that the Mingo 

has brought into my camp? 
Magua. [Shaking his hand triumphantly at Uncas] She 

is mine, Mohican, you know that she is mine! 
Tamenund. [Trying to look into the youth's averted face] 

My son is silent! 
Uncas. [Sorrowfully] It is so! 
Tamenund. Huron, depart with what is thine own. 

Magua advances and seizes Cora by the arm. Alice 

reaches out her arms toward her sister, then staggers, faint 

with grief, and is supported by Heyward. 
Hey ward. Hold, hold! — Huron, have mercy! Her ran- 
som shall make thee rich! 
Magua. Magua is a redskin; he wants not the beads of 

the pale faces. 
Hawkeye. Gold — silver — powder — lead! All that becomes 

the greatest chief shall be yours! 
Magua. Le Subtil is very strong. [Taking hold of Cora's 

arm roughly] He has his revenge. 
Heyward. To you, just Tamenund, I appeal for mercy. 
Tamenund. The words of the Delaware are said. Men 

speak not twice! 
Hawkeye. Huron, you love me not. Take me in the 

maiden's place. 
Magua. [Shaking his head and motioning impatiently for 

the crowd to open a way for him] No, no ! This is my 

revenge! Only one of the blood of Munro can pay for 

the stripes I carry on my back. 
Hawkeye. My life! 
Magua. Le Renard Subtil is a great chief; he has but one 

mind. [To Cora] Come! 

She turns toward Alice, but the Huron drags her forward. 



42 Dramatization 



[Second Year 



Hey ward. [Placing Alice in the arms of an Indian girl] 
Ay, go! Go, Magua, go! These Delawares have their 
laws, which forbid them to detain you; but I — I have no 
such obligation. Go, malignant — why do you delay? 

Magua. [With an expression of triumph followed quickly 
by a look of cunning] The woods are open; "The 
Open Hand" may come. 

Hawkeye. [Seizing Heyward by the arm and detaining him 
by force] Hold! You know not the craft of the imp. 
He would lead you to an ambushment and your death — 

Uncas. Huron, the justice of the Delawares comes from the 
Manitou. Look at the sun. He is now in the upper 
branches of the hemlock. Your path is short and open. 
When he is seen above the trees, there will be men on 
your trail. 

Magua. [With a taunting laugh] I hear a crow! Go! [Shak- 
ing his fist at the crowd which had slowly opened to admit 
his passage] Where are the petticoats of the Delawares! 
Let them send their arrows and their guns to the Wyan- 
dots; they shall have venison to eat, and corn to hoe. 
Dogs, rabbits, thieves I spit on you! 

Cora gives d despairing look toward the fainting Alice, 
as she is dragged away by Magna. 
Curtain 

Second Interlude 
Spirit of the Mohicans 
Silent stood the young Mohican, 
As the cruel Huron left them, 
Followed by his sad-eyed captive, 
Till the forest closed about him! 
Then the agile-footed Uncas 
Woke the nation's slumbering passion; 
Led the war-dance of the nation; 



second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 43 

Raised the well-known shout of battle ! 
And they gathered at the war-cry, 
Following their youthful leader. 
Chingachgook was not far distant, 
And the maiden's aged father 
Bore his share in that day's conflict. 

But with foe so unrelenting, 
Maddened by the thirst for bloodshed, 
Was there any hope of rescue 
For the maid in Huron's power? 

Fierce the fight and sad the ending: 
Slain the dark-eyed, pale-face daughter! 
Slain the hope of Chingachgook! 
Magua's vengeful shout of triumph, 
Soon the faithful Hawkey e silenced — 
Gone the reptile-hearted Magua! 
But the gentle, dark-eyed daughter 
And the agile-footed Uncas 
Leave their fathers broken-hearted ! 
Sad-faced maidens gently bore her 
To her grave among the strangers; 
And the last sad rites are over 
For the Sagamore's brave son. — 

Now above the solemn music, 
And the mourning of the nation, 
Hearken to the measured marching, 
Hearken to the tread of soldiers! 
They have come, who long have tarried — 
Tardy escort! — Ah, the suffering, 
Laggard Frenchman, thou hast cost them! 

Silent as the mists of morning, 
View with me the scene of parting: 
Sagamore and pale-face warrior, 
Brothers now through sorrows borne! 



44 Dramatization [second Year 

Scene III 

The Parting 

Characters: 
Munro. David Gamut. 

Heyward. Montcalm's Aide. 

Alice. Guide. 

Hawkeye. Chingachgook. 

Tamenund. The Delaware*. 

For the setting of this scene, the platform and .seats used 
in cene it an removed. The stage represents a clearing in 
the forest, not far from the graves of Cora and Uncas. In the 
background, as the curtain rises, the Delaware chiefs, women, 
and youths are already assembled. To the left, Montcalm's 

Aide, and his Guide, appear, waiting for Munro's return. 

Strains of weird Indian music chanted by the Delaware 
maidens are heard. From the right enter: first, the maidens, 
who join the other Delawares, but continue the chanting in 
subdued tones until the dialogue begins; then, Munro, leaning 
on the arm of Hawkeye, followed by four Indian youths 
bearing a rude litter tat which Alice lies; Heyward walks by her 

side, and Dai id Gamut closes the procession. As Munro 

and Hawkeye reach the center of the stage, the Indian youths rest 
their burden near the entrance, in such a position as to complete 
an effective stage picture. At this moment, unseen by Munro, 
who stands with bowed head, Montcalm' 's Aide approaches and 
salutes. Hawkeye touches Munro on the shoulder and 
wJiispers i)i his ear. Munro instinctively returns the salute. 
Muxro. [With forced cah?i] I understand you, sir. I 
understand you. — It is the will of Heaven, and I sub- 
mit. [Raising his eyes as if in prayer] Cora, my child! 
If the prayers of a heartbroken father could avail thee 
now, how blessed shouldst thou be! — Come, gentlemen. 






second Year] The Last of the Mohicans 45 

[Controlling his grief with an effort] Our duty here is 
ended; let us depart. [He goes to the side of the litter, 
looks down upon his daughter a moment, then turns to 
shake the hand of Hawkey e in farewell] Good friend, you 
have done me and mine, noble service. A broken- 
hearted father thanks you — Come, gentlemen! 

The Indian youths take up the litter at a signal from 
Heyward, who then grasps the hand of Hawkeye and moves 
slowly on. Hawkeye follows in the rear of the procession 
as it passes from the stage at the left. As they disappear he 
turns to join the Delawares. At the same moment, Chingach- 
gook appears on the opposite side, bowed with grief, but 
suddenly lifts his head, as if by a supreme effort, and 
addresses the mourning chiefs in a voice at first weak and 
trembling, but growing stronger as he proceeds. 

Chingachgook. Why do my brothers mourn? Why do 
my daughters weep? That a young man has gone to 
the happy hunting-grounds! That a chief has filled his 
time with honor! He was good; he was dutiful; he was 
brave. Who can deny it? The Manitou had need of 
such a warrior, and he has called him away. As for me, 
the son and the father of Uncas, I am a blazed pine in 
a clearing of the pale faces. My race has gone from the 
shores of the salt lake, and the hills of the Delawares. 
But who can say that the Serpent of his tribe has for- 
gotten his wisdom? I am alone — 

Hawkeye. [Approaching] No, no! No, sagamore, not 
alone. The gifts of our colors may be different, but 
God has so placed us as to journey in the same path. 
I have no kin, and I may also say, like you, no people. 
He was your son, and a redskin by nature; and it may 
be that your blood was nearer — but if I ever forget 
the lad who has so often fought at my side in war, and 
slept at my side in peace, may He who made us all, 



46 Dramatization [second Year 

whatever may be our color or our gifts, forget me! 
The boy has left us for a time; but, sagamore, you are 
not alone! 

Chingachgook grasps the hand of the Scout. The two 
friends stand for a moment with bowed heads. Quietly, 
the Delawares in the background divide, and Tamenund 
appears, leaning, as before, on the arms of his two com- 
panions. With hands raised as if in blessing, in a clear 
voice he addresses his people. 
Tamenund. It is enough. Go, children of the Lenape. 
The anger of the Manitou is not done. Why should 
Tamenund stay? The pale faces are masters of the 
earth, and the time of the red men has not yet come 
again. My day has been t»»<> Long. In the morning I 
saw the sons of Unamis happy and strong; and yet, 
before the night has come, have I lived to see the last 
warrior of the wise race of the Mohicans. 
( •urtain 
Epilogue 
Sjtirit of the Mohicans 

Last of all the brave Mohicans, 
Chingachgook in sorrow lingers — 
But the aged, "pale face" warrior 
Is at rest among his kindred — 
And the blue-eyed daughter wedded 
To the gallant Duncan Heyward. 
Earth-bound still, I follow after, 
Where the noble Chieftain loiters, 
Loiters by the grave of Uncas. 
In the forest wildernesses. — 
Silently I follow after, 
Follow Chingachgook, the mighty, 
Last of all the brave Mohicans. 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 47 

A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

Charles Dickens 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The following situations from A Tale of Two Cities have been chosen 
for dramatization, as they suggest the plot of the story and offer good 
studies in character interpretation: 

The Honest Tradesman at Home, Book II, chap. i. 

Knitting, Book II, chap. xv. 

Still Knitting, Book II, chap. xvi. 

The Knitting Done, Book III, chap. xiv. 

The only deviation of note from the original in the first scene is the 
introduction of some of the conversation that occurs between Mr. 
Cruncher and his son Jerry later on in chap. xiv. In the three scenes 
that follow, Knitting, Still Knitting, and The Knitting Done, Madame 
Defarge is the central figure and the progress of her knitting — the regis- 
ter she makes of those doomed to fall at the hands of the Revolutionists 
— marks the progress of the plot of the story. The three together 
form an interesting dramatic unit. In dramatizing these selections 
few changes are necessary. The dialogue of the novel is used practically 
as it stands with occasional abridgment. Change of scene is avoided 
by having the entire action take place in the first instance, Knitting, 
within the wine shop, instead of partly there and partly in Dr. Manette's 
old room over the shop. In the next scene, Still Knitting, the events 
of the evening and the next day are represented as occurring at the 
same time. In the last scene, The Knitting Done, both setting and time 
are kept as in the original. 

The Honest Tradesman at Home 

Characters : 
Mr. Cruncher. 
Mrs. Cruncher. 
Young Jerry. 

The setting of this scene is changed slightly from that 
given in the story. The stage should present a room in 
Mr. Cruncher's home, — bedroom, kitchen, dining-room, in 



48 Dramatization [second Year 

one. A couch with tumbled blankets, indicating that some 
one has just arisen; a table covered tcith a scrupulously clean 
cloth, and set for breakfast; and various pots and pans stand- 
ing on a shelf in the background to suggest the kitchen, make 
up the stage furniture. A curtain cutting off a portion of the 
room is supposed to conceal a stove. In a rather conspicuous 
position stand dirty boots, a rust}/ shovel and pickaxe, and 
Jerry's wooden stool. Mr. Cruncher and Jiis son are dis- 
covered finishing their toilets, instead of in bed, as in the 
original. Mrs. Cruncher is kneeling in one corner of the room. 

Mb. Cruncher. [Aside] Bust me, if she ain't at it agin! 
Mrs. Cruncher rises umt sets about placing dishes on 
the breakfast table. 

Mr. Cruncher. [To Mrs. Cruncher] What! You're at 
it again, arc you? 

Mrs. Cri \< her. [Meekly] I'm sure I'm not doing any- 
thing, Jerry. 

Mr. Cruncher. I Bay you arc What arc you up to, 
Agger a way ter? 

Mrs. Cruncher. I was only saying my prayers. 

Mr. Cruncher. Saying your prayers! You're a nice 
woman! What do you mean by flopping yourself down 
and praying agin me? 

Mrs. Crun< her. I was not praying against you; I was 
praying for you. 

Mr. Cruncher. You weren't. And if you were, I won't 
be took the liberty with. [To Young Jerry] Here! 
your mother's' a nice woman, young Jerry, going a-pray- 
ing agin your father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful 
mother, you have, my son. You've got a religious 
mother, you have, my boy — going and flopping herself 
down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be 
snatched out of the mouth of her only child. 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 49 

Young Jerry. [Whining. He has been slowly putting on 

his jacket, and tying his tie, while listening to his father] 

Yes, I've got a dutiful mother, I've got a religious 

mother, and she keeps flopping and praying that my 

bread-and-butter may be snatched out of my mouth. 

And me her only child, too ! 
Mr. Cruncher. Young Jerry, my boy, keep a eye upon 

your mother now, while I clean my boots, and if you see 

any signs of more flopping, give me a call. 
Y^oung Jerry. All right, father. 

Mr. Cruncher takes his boots off to one side and begins 

to brush them vigorously, talking as he ivorks, to Mrs. 

Cruncher. 
Mr. Cruncher. And what do you suppose, you conceited 

female, that the worth of your prayers may be? Name 

the price that you put your prayers at! 
Mrs. Cruncher. [Who is busily putting the finishing 

touches to the breakfast] They only come from the heart, 

Jerry. They are worth no more than that. 
Mr. Cruncher. Worth no more than that! They ain't 

worth much, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed 

agin, I tell you. I can't afford it — 
Young Jerry. [As he sees his mother stoop to pick up a 

a knife which she had dropped] You're going to flop, 

mother. — Halloa, father! 
Mr. Cruncher. [Still rubbing a boot, steps up to his wife] 

If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favor of 

your husband and child, and not in opposition to 'em. 
Mrs. Cruncher. I'm always in favor of my husband and 

child. — Come now to breakfast. 

They all three sit down. Mrs. Cruncher bends silently 

over her plate for a second. 
Mr. Cruncher. Now, Aggeraway ter ! What are you up 

to? At it agin? 






50 Dramatization [second Year 

Mrs. Cruncher. I was only asking a blessing. 

Mr. Cruncher. Don't do it! I ain't a going to be 
blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles 
blest off my table. Keep still! 

Mrs. Cruncher silently pours tea, passes it, and series 
the rest of the meal. Mr. Cruncher continues talking. 

Mr. Cruncher. If I had had any but a unnat'ral wife, 
and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, 
I might have made some money last week, instead of 
being counter-prayed and counter-ruined and religiously 
circumwented into the worst of luck. 

Young Jerry. Yes, mother, he might have made some 
money last week if you hadn't always been a-flopping. 

Mrs. Cruncher. O, Jerry, my boy. You too! 

Mr. Cruncher. [Addressing his wife] I tell you, I won't 
be gone agin in this manner. I am as rickety as a hack- 
ney-coach, I'm as sleepy a^ laudanum, my lines is 
strained to that degree thai I shouldn't know, if it 
wasn't for the pain in Vm which was me and which 
somebody else, yet I'm none the better for it in pocket; 
and it's my suspicion that you've been at it from morn- 
ing to night to prevent me from being the better for 
it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggeraw T ayter, 
and what do you say now! 

Mrs. Cruncher. I try to be a good wife, Jerry. 

Mk. Cruncher. Is it being a good wife to oppose your 
husband's business? Is it honoring your husband to 
dishonor his business? Is it obeying your husband to 
disobey him on the wital subject of his business? 

Mrs. Cruncher. You hadn't taken to the dreadful busi- 
ness when I married you, Jerry. 

Mr. Cruncher. It's enough for you, to be the wife of a 
honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind 
with calculations when he took to his trade or w r hen he 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 51 

didn 't. A honoring and obeying wife would let his trade 
alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If 
you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! 
You have no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed 
of this here Thames River has of a pile, and similarly 
it must be knocked into you. 

As he finishes , he rises and goes over to continue cleaning 
on his boots. 

Mrs. Cruncher. Jerry, go and help your father clean 
his boots. 

Young Jerry. All right, mother. 

Young Jerry does as he is bid. Mrs. Cruncher busies 
herself clearing the table. 

Mr. Cruncher. Here, Jerry, hurry and clean this boot! 

Young Jerry. [Taking up the boot and beginning to work] 
Father, what's a Resurrection-Man? 

Mr. Cruncher. How should I know? 

Young Jerry. [Artlessly] I thought you knowed every- 
thing, father. 

Mr. Cruncher. [Somewhat appeased] Hem! Well, he's 
a tradesman. 

Young Jerry. [Briskly] What's his goods, father? 

Mr. Cruncher. [Thoughtfully] His goods is a branch of 
Scientific goods. 

Young Jerry. [Brightly] Persons' bodies, ain't it, 
father? 

Mr. Cruncher. I believe it is something of that sort. 

Young Jerry. [With enthusiasm] Oh, father, I should 
so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite growed 
up! 

Mr. Cruncher. [Dubiously] It depends upon how you 
dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop your tal- 
ents, and never to say no more than you can help to 
nobody, and there's no telling at the present time what 



52 Dramatization 



[Second Year 



you may not come to be fit for. [He takes off his slip- 
pers and draws on his boots. — To his icife] And now 
I'm going, Mrs. Cruncher. No flopping, remember! 
[To Young Jerry] Keep a eye on her, young Jerry. No 
flopping remember ! [Aside, as Young Jerry goes to fetch his 
father's hat and stool] Jerry, you honest tradesman, 
there's hopes wot that boy will yet be a blessing to you, 
and a recompense to you for his mother! 

Young Jerry hands his father hi* hat and stool, and 
accompanies him to the door. 
Young Jerry. Good bye, lather. [Exit Mr. Cruncher. 

Young Jerry comes back slowly, goes up to the tools and 
takes them up. Meditatively] Al-waya rusty! His 
fingers Is al-waya rusty! Where does my father get all 
that iron rust from? He don't get no iron rust here! 

In the meantime Mrs. Cruncher has retired to her corner 
where she has again "flapped" 

Curtain 

\\ FITTING 

Character-: 

Mme. Defarge. Jacques Tiro. 

Jacques Cue. Jacques Tfiree. 

J/. Defarge, Jacques Four. 
The Mender of Roads, Jacques Five. 
Three Other Men. 

The scene represents the interior of Monsieur Defarge 's 
wine shop. .1/ the rear (right) is a counter on ivhich are 
bottles, glasses, etc. Behind the counter are curtains, seem- 
ingly hiding windows. At the rear (left) is a door, leading 
to the street. A door which leads to another room is represented 
at one side (right). Several small tables are disposed about 
the room. Mme. Defarge sits at the counter industriously 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 53 

knitting. Six men are grouped at two of the small tables, 
drinking and smoking. As the curtain rises, Defarge and the 
Mender of Roads, travel- stained, enter, and all the men look at 
them, though no one rises or speaks. 

Defarge. Good day, gentlemen! 

Men. Good day! 

Defarge. [Shaking his head] It is bad weather, gentlemen. 
The men look at each other and remain silent. One 
man gets up and goes slowly out. 

Defarge. [After greeting his wife, who has risen and 
approached him, as he motions the Mender of Roads 
to a seat at one of the tables and seats himself beside him] 
My wife, I have traveled certain leagues with this good 
Mender of Roads, called Jacques. I met him — by acci- 
dent — a day and a half's journey out of Paris. He is a 
good child, this Mender of Roads, called Jacques. Give 
him to drink, my wife! 

A second man gets up, and goes out. Mme. Defarge 
fetches wine from the counter and sets it before the Mender of 
Roads and Defarge. The Mender of Roads doffs his blue 
cap to the company and drinks. From the breast of his 
blouse he takes some coarse dark bread which he begins to 
eat. A third man gets up, and goes out. Defarge rises, 
goes to the door and bolts it. 

Defarge. [To his wife] Draw the curtains, my wife. 
No one must come in for an hour or so. 

Mme. Defarge. Very well, my husband. 

She draws the curtains, then takes a seat at a small table 
near the front of the stage and is absorbed in her knitting. 

Defarge. [To the men] Come, now, my men. Jacques 
One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness 
encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. 
He will tell you all. Speak, Jacques Five! 



54 Dramatization [second Year 

The men rise, bring their chairs and form a circle about 
the Mender of Roads who is still eating and drinking. 

Defarge. Have you finished your repast, friend? 

The Mender of Roads. Yes, Monsieur. [He takes his 
blue cap and wipes his swarthy forehead with it\ Where 
shall I commence, Monsieur? 

Defarge. Commence at the commencement. 

The Mender of Roads. I saw him then, messieurs, a 
year ago this running summer, underneath the carriage 
of the Marquis, hanging by the chain. Behold the 
manner of it. I, Leaving my work on the road, the sun 
going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascend- 
ing the hill, he hanging by the chain like this. 

lie stands up, turns himself sideways to the table, leans 
back, with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head 
thrown back. Then he slowly recovers himself and sits 
down again. 

Jacqi es One. Had you ever -ecu the man before? 

The Mendeb of Roads. Never. 

Jacques Three. How did you afterwards recognize him, 
then? 

The Mendeb of Roads. [Softly] By his tall figure. When 
Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening, "Say, 
what is he like? " [make response, "Tail as aspecter." 

Jacques Two. You should have said, short as a dwarf. 

The Mendeb of Roads. [Dramatically] But what did 
I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither 
did he confide in me. Observe! Under those circum- 
stances even, I do not offer my testimony. Monsieur 
the Marquis indicates me with his finger, standing near 
our little fountain, and says, "To me! Bring that 
rascal!" My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing. 

Defarge. [To Jacques Two] He is right there, Jacques. 
Go on! 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 55 

The Mender of Roads. [Mysteriously] Good! The tall 
rnaoi is lost, and he is sought — how many months? 
Nine, ten, eleven? 

Defarge. No matter, the number. He is well hidden, 
but at last he is unluckily found. Go on! 

The Mender of Roads. [Rising] I am again at work 
upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to go to 
bed. I raise my eyes, and see coming over the hill six 
soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man with his 
arms bound — tied to his sides — like this! [Indicating 
with his arms] I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of 
stones, to see the soldiers and their prisoner pass, and 
at first, as they approach, I see no more than that they 
are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and that they 
are almost black to my sight — except on the side of 
the sun going to bed, where they have a red edge, mes- 
sieurs. Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and 
that the dust moves with them as they come, tramp, 
tramp! But when they advance quite near to me, I 
recognize the tall man, and he recognizes me. Ah, but 
he would be well content to precipitate himself over 
the hill-side once again, as on the evening when he and 
I first encountered, close to the same spot! 

Defarge. [Pouring a glass of wine for the Mender of Roads] 
Drink, Jacques Five — you are tired. 

The Mender of Roads. [Continuing after he drains the 
glass] I do not show the soldiers that I recognize the 
tall man; he does not show the soldiers that he recog- 
nizes me; we do it, and we know it, with our eyes. 
"Come on!" says the chief of that company, pointing to 
the village, "bring him fast to his tomb!" and they bring 
him faster. I follow. His arms are swelled because of 
being bound so tight, his wooden shoes are large and 
clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and con- 



56 Dramatization [second Year 

sequently slow, they drive him with their guns — like 
this! [Indicating the motion; then he sits down, rests his 
head on his hand, and continues after a moment] As 
they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he 
falls. They laugh and pick him up again. His face 
is bleeding and covered with dust, but he cannot touch 
it; thereupon they Laugh again. They bring him into 
the village; all the village runs to look; they take him 
past the mill, and up to the prison; all the village sees 
the prison gates open in the darkness of the night, and 
swallow him — like this! 

lit opens his mouth as wide as he can and shuts it with 
a sounding snap of his teeth, and remains with his mouth 
firmly closed for a second or two. 

Defabge. [Urgently] Go on, Jacques. 

The M i:\m.i: <>; Roads. [Rising and standing on tiptoe] 
All the village withdraws; all the village whispers by 
the fountain: all the village sleeps; all the village dreams 
of that unhappy one. In the morning, with my tools 
upon my shoulders, eating my morsel of black bread as 
I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on my way to my 
work. There 1 -><■<■ him high up, behind the bars of a 
lofty iron cage, bloody and dusty as Last night, looking 
through. He has no hand free, to wave to me; I dare 
not call to him; he regards me like a dead man. 

Defarge and the three glance darkly at one another. 
Jacques One and Two sit, with chins resting on hands, 
and eyes inte?it on the road mender; Jacques Three, equally 
intent, nervously smooths his chin; Defarge sits between 
them and the narrator, by turns looking from him to them, 
and from them to him. 

Defarge. Go on, Jacques. 

The Mender of Roads. He remains up there in his iron 
cage some days. The village looks at him by stealth, 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 57 

for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a distance, 
at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the 
work of the day is achieved, and it assembles to gossip 
at the fountain, all faces are turned toward the prison. 
They whisper at the fountain, that although condemned 
to death he will not be executed; they say that petitions 
have been presented in Paris, showing that he was en- 
raged and made mad by the death of his child; they 
say that a petition has been presented to the King him- 
self. What do I know? It is possible. Perhaps yes, 
perhaps no. 

Jacques One. [Sternly interposing] Listen then, Jacques. 
[The Mender of Roads sits down again] Know that a 
petition was presented to the King and Queen. All 
here, yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his 
carriage in the street, sitting beside the Queen. It is 
Defarge whom you see here, who, at the hazard of 
his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition 
in his hand. 

Jacques Three. [Nervously rubbing his chin] And once 
again listen, Jacques! The guard, horse and foot, sur- 
rounded the petitioner, and struck him blows. You 
hear? 

The Mender of Roads. I hear, messieurs. 

Defarge. Go on, then. 

The Mender of Roads. Again; on the other hand, they 
whisper at the fountain, that he is brought down into 
our country to be executed on the spot, and that he 
will very certainly be executed. They even whisper 
that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because 
Monseigneur was the father of his tenants — serfs — 
what you will — he will be executed as a parricide. One 
old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed 
with the knife, will be burnt off before his face, that — 



58 Dramatization [second Year 

Defarge. [With impatience] Enough! Go on. 

The Mender of Roads. At length, on Sunday night 
when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding 
down from the prison, and their guns ring on the stones 
of the little street. Workmen dig, workmen hammer, 
soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by the fountain, 
there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the 
water. [He points up toward the sky and rises] All work 
is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out, 
the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of 
drums. Soldiers have marched into the prison in the 
night, and he is in the midst of many soldiers. He is 
bound as before, and in his mouth there is a gag — tied 
so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he 
laughed. He is hanged there forty feet high — and is 
left hanging, poisoning the water. [//< wipes his face 
with his cap again; then continues] It is frightful, mes- 
sieurs. How can the women and the children draw water! 
AN no can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! 

Jacques Two. Frightful indeed. You speak true. 

The MENDEB <>i Road--. That's all, messieurs. I left at 
sunset (as I had been warned to do), and I walked on, 
that night and half next day, until I met (as I was 
warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, 
now riding and now walking, through the rest of yes- 
terday and through last night. And here you see me! 
He seats himself, exhausted after his thrilling narrative. 
There is a short silence. 

Jacques One. Good. You have acted and recounted 
faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, in another 
room? 

Deearge. [Pouring wine for him] First, some more wine. 
Drink, Jacques. 

The Mender of Roads. Willingly. 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 59 

Defarge. [To Mme. Defarge] My wife, show Jacques to 
another room. 

Mme. Defarge. Very well, my husband. 

She rises and goes over to the Mender of Roads, who gets 
up and starts to follow her. The men whisper together 
while Mme. Defarge and the Mender of Roads are talking. 

The Mender of Roads. [Pointing awkivardly to her knit- 
ting] You work hard, madame. 

Mme. Defarge. Yes, I have a good deal to do. 

The Mender of Roads. What do you make, Madame? 

Mme. Defarge. Many things. 

The Mender of Roads. For instance — 

Mme. Defarge. [Just before the door closes on them, com- 
posedly] For instance — shrouds. 

Jacques One. How say you, Jacques Four? To be regis- 
tered? 

Defarge. To be registered as doomed to destruction. 

Jacques Three. Magnificent! 

Jacques One. The chateau and all the race? 

Defarge. The chateau and all the race. Extermination. 

Jacques Two. Are you sure that no embarrassment can 
arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without 
doubt it is safe, for no one beyond ourselves can 
decipher it; but shall we always be able to decipher it— 
or, I ought to say, will she? 

Defarge. [Drawing himself up proudly] Jacques, if 
madame my wife undertook to keep the register in her 
memory alone, she would not lose a word of it — not a 
syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her own 
symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Con- 
fide in Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the 
weakest poltroon that lives, to erase himself from 
existence, than to erase one letter of his name or crimes 
from the knitted register of Madame Defarge. 



60 Dramatization 



[Second Year 



A murmur of applause comes from the men. As Defarge 

finishes, the door to the other room is opened, and Mme. 

Defarge re-enters, silently takes her seat once more, and 

resumes her knitting. 
Jacques One. Extermination then to one and all! 
Jacques Two. Death to the race! 
Jacques Three. Their doom is sealed! 
Defarge. [Rising and going over to his wife] My wife, 

they are to be registered — the chateau and all the race. 
Mme. Defarge. [Composedly knitting on] My husband, 

they are registered — the chateau and all the race. 
Curtain 

Still Knitting 

Characters: 
M. Defarge, 

Mme. Defarge. 

John Bar sad. 

The scene represented is the interior of the wine shop. 
Mine. Defarge, industriously knitting, sits at one side 
well to the front of the stage, but so placed that she can see her 
husband, who stands behind the counter, busily wiping glasses. 

Mme. Defarge. Say then, my friend; what did Jacques 

of the police tell thee? 
Defarge. Very little tonight, but all he knows. There 

is another spy commissioned for our quarter. There 

may be many more, for all that he can say, but he knows 

of one. 
Mme. Defarge. Eh, well! [Raising her eyebrows with 

a cool business air] It is necessary to register him. How 

do they call that man? 
Defarge. He is English. 
Mme. Defarge. So much the better. His name? 



Second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 61 

Defarge. Barsad. [Making it French by pronunciation; 

then spelling it] B-a-r-s-a-d. 
Mme. Defarge. Barsad. Good. Christian name? 
Defarge. John. 
Mme. Defarge. John Barsad. Good. His appearance; 

is it known? 
Defarge. Age, about forty years; height, about five feet 

nine; black hair; complexion dark; generally, rather 

handsome visage; eyes dark, face thin, long, and sallow; 

nose aquiline, but not straight, having a peculiar 

inclination toward the left cheek; expression, therefore, 

sinister. 
Mme. Defarge. [Laughing] Eh, my faith. It is a 

portrait! He shall be registered. 

Defarge comes from behind the counter, and seats himself 

by his wife, heaving a long sigh as he does so. 
Mme. Defarge. You are fatigued, I see. 
Defarge. I am a little tired. 
Mme. Defarge. You are a little depressed. Oh, the 

men, the men! 
Defarge. But, my dear — 
Mme. Defarge. [Repeating and nodding firmly] But, my 

dear ! But, my dear ! You are faint of heart tonight, 

my dear! 
Defarge. Well then, it is a long time. 
Mme. Defarge. It is a long time, and when is it not 

a long time? Vengeance and retribution require a long 

time; it is the rule. 
Defarge. It does not take a long time to strike a man 

with lightning. 
Mme. Defarge. [Composedly] How long does it take to 

make and store the lightning? Tell me. 
Defarge. [Raising his head thoughtfully] Well, there's 

something in that, too. 



62 Dramatization [second Year 

Mme. Defarge. It does not take a long time for an 
earthquake to swallow a town. Eh, well! Tell me how 
long it takes to prepare the earthquake? 

Defarge. A long time, I suppose. 

Mme. Defarge. But when it is ready, it takes place, 
and grinds to pieces everything before it. In the mean- 
time, it is always preparing, though it is not seen or 
heard. That is your consolation. Keep it. [She ties 
a knot with flashing eyes, as if throttling a foe] I tell thee 
that although it is a Long time on the road, it is on the 
road and coming. 1 tell thee it never retreats, and never 
stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look around 
and consider the lives of all the world that we know, 
consider the faces of all the world we know, consider the 
rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses 
itself with more and more of certainty every hour. Can 

such things last? Bah! [mock you. 

Defahcie. [Rising and standing before her tilth his head 
a tittle In tit, and his hands clasped at his back] My brave 
wife I do not question all this. Hut it has Lasted a long 
time, and it is possible — you know well, my wife, it is 
possible that it may not come during our lives. 

Mme. Defabge. [Tying another knot as If It were another 
enemy strangled] Eh, well, how then? 

Defahce. [With a half complaining and half apologetic 
shrug] Well! We shall not see the triumph! 

Mme. Defarge. We shall have helped it. Nothing that 
we do is done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we 
shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew 
certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and 
tyrant, and still I would — [With her teeth set, she ties a 
very terrible knot indeed.} 

Defarge. [Somewhat embarrassed] Hold! I too, my dear, 
will stop at nothing. 






second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 63 

Mme. Defarge. Yes! But it is your weakness that 
you sometimes need to see your victim and your oppor- 
tunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that. 
When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but 
wait for the time with the tiger and the devil chained — 
not shown — yet always ready. [She rises and goes be- 
hind the counter where she examines the bottles] Now, 
go fetch a jug of wine from the cellar. The bottles are 
all empty, I see. 

Defarge leaves. Just after the door closes on him, a 
stranger (Bar sad) enters. He steps up to the counter. 

Barsad. Good day, madame. Have the goodness to 
give me a little glass of old cognac, and a mouthful of 
tcooI fresh water, madame. 

Mme. Defarge pours a glass of cognac which she 
hands to him with the glass of water, as requested. 

Barsad. [After drinking at one swallow] Marvelous cog- 
nac this, madame! Another glass, please. [He ivalks 
over to a table and seats himself] 

Mme. Defarge. [Takes it to him, resumes her seat, and 
is soon busily knitting again] You flatter the cognac. 

Barsad. [Watching her fingers fly back and forth] You knit 
with great skill, madame. 

Madame Defarge. I am accustomed to it. 

Barsad. A pretty pattern, too. 

Mme. Defarge. [Smiling at him quizzically] You think so? 

Barsad. Decidedly. May one ask what it is for? 

Mme. Defarge. [Still smiling at him while her fingers 
move nimbly] Pastime. 

Barsad. Not for use? 

Mme. Defarge. [Nodding her head with a stern kind of 
coquetry] That depends. I may find use for it one day. 
If I do — well, I'll use it. 

Barsad settles back in his chair and busies himself with 



64 Dramatization [second year 

his pipe, preparing to smoke. Mme. Defarge rises and 
goes to a table in the far corner of the room from which she 
takes more wool. 

Mme. Defarge. [Aside, as she stands sorting the wool] 
John. Stay long enough and I shall knit Barsad. 
[She walks back to her seat] 

Barsad. [Between the puffs of his pipe] You have a hus- 
band, madame. 

Mme. Defarge. I have. 

Barsad. Children? 

Mme. Defarge. No children. 

Barsad. Business seems bad? 

Mme. Defarge. Business is very bad; the people are 
so poor. 

Barsad. Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So 
oppressed, too — as you say. 

Mme. Defarge. [Correcting him] As pou say. 

Barsad. Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but 
you naturally think SO. Of course. 

Mme. 1>i farge. [In a high voice] I think? I and my 
husband have enough to (1«> to keep this wine shop open 
without thinking. All we think, here, is how to live 
That is the subject we think of, and it gives us, from 
morning to night, enough to think about, without em- 
barrassing our heads concerning others. / think for 
others? No, no. 

Barsad. [With a sigh of a great compassion] A bad busi- 
ness this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the 
poor Gaspard! 

Mme. Defarge. [Coolly and lightly] My faith! If 
people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay 
for it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury 
was; he has paid the price. 

Barsad. [Confidentially] I believe there is much com- 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 65 

passion and anger in this neighborhood, touching the 
poor fellow? Between ourselves. 

Mme. Defarge. [Vacantly] Is there? 

Barsad. Is there not? 

The sound of approaching footsteps is heard. 

Mme. Defarge. [Turning her head toward the door] 
Here is my husband. 

Defarge enters, bringing with him two jugs of wine. 
The stranger salutes him by touching his hat. Mme. 
Defarge rises, puts down her knitting for a moment, takes 
the jugs from her husband, and places them on the counter. 
Defarge nods back at the stranger, then takes a seat at the 
table with him. Mme. Defarge pours two glasses of the 
wine, and places them on the table before the two men. 
Then she resumes her seat and her knitting. 

Barsad. [To Defarge] Good day, Jacques! 

Defarge. [With a slight start, but quickly recovering him- 
self] You deceive yourself, monsieur. You mistake me 
for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge. 

Barsad. [Airily, but discomfited] It is all the same. 
Good day! 

Defarge. [Dryly] Good day! 

Barsad. I was saying to madame, with whom I had the 
pleasure of chatting when you entered, that they tell me 
there is — and no wonder! — much sympathy and anger 
in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor 
Gaspard. 

Defarge. [Shaking his head] No one has told me so. I 
know nothing of it. [He empties his glass, rises, goes 
over to his wife, and stations himself behind her chair] 
You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, 
better than I do. 

Barsad. Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am 
so profoundly interested in its miserable inhabitants. 



66 Dramatization [second Tear 

Another glass of cognac, madame, if you please. [Mme. 
Defarge goes to the counter, pours out the cognac, carries 
it to him, and then takes up her knitting, humming 
a little song as her fingers fly nimbly at their work] The 
pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, 
recalls to me, that I have the honor of cherishing some 
interesting associations with your name. 

Defarge. [Indifferently] Indeed? 

Barsad. Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was 
released, his old domestic had the charge of him, I 
know. He was delivered to you. You see I am informed 
of the circumstances? 

Mine. Defarge drops her knifting. Her husband stoop* 
to pick it up for her. As he hands it to her, they 
exchange significant glances. Then he proceeds to answer 
the stranger, evidently with the approval of his irife. 

Defarge. Such is the fact certainly. 

Barsad. It was to you thai his daughter came; and it 
was from your care that hi> daughter took him, accom- 
panied by a neat brown monsieur; how is he called? — 
in a Little wig -Lorry -of the bank of Tellson and 
Company — over to England. 

Defarge. Such is the fact. 

Barsad. Very interesting remembrances! I have known 
Doctor Manet le and his daughter, in England. 

Defarge. Yes? 

Barsad. You don't hear much about them now? 

Defarge. Xo. 

Mme. Defarge. [Looking up from her work and stop- 
ping her little song] In effect we never hear about them. 
We received the news of their safe arrival, and perhaps 
another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then, they have 
gradually taken their road in life — we ours — and we 
have held no correspondence. 






second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 67 

Barsad. Perfectly so, madame. — She is going to be married. 

Mme. Defarge. Going? She was pretty enough to have been 
married long ago. You English are cold, it seems to me. 

Barsad. [Laughing a little disconcertedly] Oh! You know 
I am English? 

Mme. Defarge. I perceive your tongue is, and what the 
tongue is, I suppose the man is. 

Barsad. Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But 
not to an Englishman; to one who, like herself, is French 
by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah, poor Gaspard! It 
was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is going 
to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom 
Gaspard was exalted to that height of so many feet; in 
other words, the present Marquis. But he lives unknown 
in England, he is no Marquis there; he is Mr. Charles 
Darnay. D 'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family. 
During the narration Mme. Defarge knits steadily 
on, unmoved, but Defarge, who has, in the meantime, retired 
behind the counter, and is engaged in wiping glasses, 
is perceptibly agitated, as is evident from the dropping of 
a glass or two, etc. 

Barsad. [Continuing, as he rises and goes over to the coun- 
ter] Well, I must say good bye. I hope soon to have the 
the pleasure of seeing monsieur and madame again. [He 
pays his bill, and departs] 
' For a few seconds Mme. Defarge and her husband 
remain exactly as he left them, for fear he may come bach. 
Presently, however, Defarge comes from behind the counter, 
goes up to his wife, places his hand on the back of her 
chair, and looks down in her face. 

Defarge. [In a hoarse whisper] Can it be true, what he 
has said of Ma'amselle Manette? 

Mme. Defarge. [Lifting her eyebrows] As he has said it, 
it is probably false. But it may be true. 



68 Dramatization [second Year 

Defarge. If it is — 

Mme. Defarge. If it is? 

Defarge. And if it does come, while we live to see it 
triumph — I hope, for her sake, Destiny will keep her 
husband out of France. 

Mme. Defarge. [With great composure] Her husband's 
destiny will take him where he is to go, and will lead 
him to the end that is to end him. That is all I know. 

Defarge. [Rather pleadingly to his wife] But it is very 
strangi — now al leasl is it not very strange — that, after 
all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, 
her husband's name should be proscribed under your 

hand at this moment, by the side of that infernal dog's 
who has just Left us? 

Mme. Defarge. Stranger things than that will happen 
when it dues (Mine. [have them both here (tapping her 
knitting) oi a certainty; and they are both here for their 
merits; that is enough, [She rises and slowly rods up her 
knitting] And now, this register is finished. I must go 
prepare for a uew one. Keep shop till I return. [Exit] 

Defarge. [Stands gazing offer her. Finally he turns 
around, goes behind the counter, and busies himself once more 
with the (/tosses, as he soliloquiz* \ grea1 woman, a strong 
woman, a grand woman, a frightfully grand woman! 
Curtain 

The Ivxittixg Done 

Characters: 
Miss Pi 

Mme. Defarge. 
Mr. Cruncher. 

The scene presents a meagerly furnished lodging. A 
stand on which are a basin of water and other toilet articles, 
a rude couch, and two or three chairs make up the furniture. 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 69 

At the left, a door which leads to another room, stands open. 
At the right, a window is represented. In the rear, is the door 
by which Mr. Cruncher departs and Mme. Defarge enters. 
As the curtain rises, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher, — now a 
totally different man from the Mr. Cruncher of the previous 
scene, neatly dressed and respectful in manner, — are discovered 
making preparations for flight from the city. A traveling 
basket is half packed; Miss Pross' 's bonnet and shawl are 
thrown across the couch. 

Miss Pross. [In great excitement] Now what do you 
think, Mr. Cruncher, what do you think of our not 
starting from this court-yard? Another carriage having 
already gone from here today, it might awaken sus- 
picion. 

Mr. Cruncher. [Humbly] My opinion, miss, is as 
you're right. Likewise wot I'll stand by you, right 
or wrong. 

Miss Pross. [Almost beside herself] I am so distracted 
with fear and hope for our precious creatures, that I am 
incapable of forming any plan. Are you capable of 
forming any plan, my dear, good Mr. Cruncher? 

Mr. Cruncher. [Meekly] Respectin' a future spear o* 
life, miss, I hope so. Respectin' any present use of 
this here blessed old head o' mine, I think not. Would 
you do me the favor, miss, to take notice o' two prom- 
ises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this 
here crisis? 

Miss Pross. [More agitated than ever] Oh, for gracious 
sake! record them at once, and get them out of the 
way, like an excellent man. 

Mr. Cruncher. [Solemnly] First, them poor things well 
out o ' this, never no more will I do it, never no more ! 

Miss Pross. I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher, that you 



70 Dramatization [second Year 

never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to 
think it necessary to mention more particularly what it is. 

Mr. Cruncher. [Still more g rarely] No, miss, it shall not 
be named to you. Second: them poor things well out o' 
this, and never no more will I interfere with Mrs. 
Cruncher's flopping, never do more! 

Miss Pross. [Striving to compose herself \ Whatever house- 
keeping arrangement that may be, I have no doubt it 
is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under 
her own superintendence. Oh. my poor darlings ! 

Mr. Cruni her. [ go so far as to say, miss, morehover 
and let my words be took down and look to Mrs. Crun- 
cher through yourself thai wot my opinion- respectin' 
flopping has undergone a change, and that wot 1 only 
hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a 
flopping at the present time. 

Miss Pross. There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear 
man, and I hope -la- finds it answering her expectations. 

Mr. Cruncher. [Mon solemnly and deliberately] Forbid 
it, as anything woi I ha\ iid or don.- should 

be wisited on my earnest wishes for them poor creeturs 
now! Porbid it as we shouldn't all flop (if it was any- 
ways conwenient togei em out of this here dismal risk! 
Porbid it, miss! Wot 1 say, for bid it! 

Miss Pross. It' ever we get back to our native land, yon 
may rely upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as 1 
may be aide to remember and understand of what yon 
have so impressively said; and at all events you may 
be sure that [ shall bear wito ir being thoroughly 

in earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! 
My esteemed Mr. Cruncher, let us think! [Sh 
If you were to go before, and stop the vehicle and 
horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere 
for me; wouldn't that be best? 



second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 71 

Mr. Cruncher. Yes, miss, that would be best, I'm sure. 

Miss Pross. Where could you wait for me? 

Mr. Cruncher. [Hesitatingly] Why, miss, there's Tem- 
ple Bar — 

Miss Pross. No, no, Mr. Cruncher! By the cathedral 
door. Would it be much out of the way, to take me 
in, near the great cathedral door between the two towers? 

Mr. Cruncher. No, miss, certainly not, miss. 

Miss Pross. Then, like the best of men, go to the posting- 
house straight, and make that change. 

Mr. Cruncher. [Hesitating and shaking his head] I am 
doubtful about leaving of you, you see. We don't know 
what may happen. 

Miss Pross. [Entreatingly] Heaven knows we don't, but 
have no fear for me. Take me in at the cathedral, at 
three o'clock or as near it as you can, and I am sure it 
will be better than our going from here. I feel certain 
of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think — not 
of me, but of the lives that may depend on both of us! 

Mr. Cruncher. [Nodding acquiescence] Very well, miss, 
I '11 go. Good bye, for now, miss. 

Mr. Cruncher goes out, leaving the door slightly ajar. 
Miss Pross glances around nervously after he is gone. 
Then she looks at her watch, goes over to the washstand, 
bathes her eyes, frequently pausing and looking around. 
Mme. Defarge enters silently while she is drying her face. 
As Miss Pross looks up, she utters a scream, for she sees 
Mme. Defarge standing before her. 

Mme. Defarge. [Looking at her coldly] The wife of 
Evremonde; where is she? [Miss Pross does not speak, 
but hastily goes to the door of Lucie's chamber, which is 
open, closes it, and places herself before it. Mme. Defarge 
motions toward the streetl On my way yonder, where 
they reserve my chair and my knitting for me, I am come 



72 Dramatization [second Year 

to make my compliments to her in passing. I wish to 
see her. [Motioning toward Lucie's room] 

Miss Pross. I know that your intentions are evil, and 
you may depend upon it, I '11 hold my own against them. 

Mme. Defarge. It will do her no good to keep herself 
concealed from me at this moment. Good patriots will 
know what that means. Let me see her. Go tell her 
that I wish to see her. Do you hear? 

Miss Pross. [Shaking her head firmly] Why shouldn't I 
hear? My cars arc good enough. Hut if those eyes of 
yours were bed-winches, and I was an English four- 
poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No, you 
wicked foreign woman; I am your match. 

Mme. Defabge. [Frowning] Woman imbecile and pig- 
like! 1 take qo answer from you. I demand to see 
her. Either tell her thai I demand to see her, or stand 
out of the way of the door and let me go to her! 
[Angrily waving her arm, she advances a step, still 
keeping her eyes riveted on Miss Pross] Ha, ha! 
[Laughing scornfully] You poor wretch! What are 
you worth! 

MissPboss. [Defiantly] You don't know me. I am a Briton. 
I am desperate. I don't care an English Twopence for 
myself. It is only of my Ladybird I'm thinking. I'll 
not Leave a handful of that dark hair upon your head, 
if you lay a finger on me! 

Mme. DEFABGE. [Scornfully] Coward! I address myself 
to the Doctor. [Raising her voice] Citizen Doctor! 
Wife of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person 
but this miserable fool, answer the Citizeness Defarge! 
[After an ominous silence, suddenly becoming suspicious] 
There is no one in that room behind you! Let me look. 

Miss Pross. [Firmly] Never! 

Mme. Defarge. If they are not in that room, they are 



Second Year] A Tale of Two Cities 



73 



gone, and can be pursued and brought back. [She 
walks to the window and looks out] 

Miss Pross. [Aside] As long as you don't know whether 
they are in that room or not, you are uncertain what to 
do, and you shall not know that, if I can prevent your 
knowing it; and know that, or not know that, you shall 
not leave here while I can hold you. 

Mme. Defarge. [Turning from the window and slowly 
approaching Miss Pross] I have been in the streets from 
the first, nothing has stopped me, I will tear you to pieces, 
but I will have you from that door. 

Miss Pross. We are alone at the top of a high house in 
a solitary courtyard, we are not likely to be heard, and 
I pray for bodily strength to keep you here, while every 
minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas 
to my darling. [Mme. Defarge makes a sudden dart at 
the door. Miss Pross seizes her around the waist. It is 
in vain that Mme. Defarge struggles to free herself from 
the tenacious grasp of Miss Pross. Suddenly she draws 
from her bosom a dagger. Miss Pross tries to seize it and 
in the struggle Mme. Defarge falls to the floor mortally 
wounded. Miss Pross looks wildly at her victim for a 
second, then snatches her bonnet and shawl and hurries 
from the room] And now my Ladybird is safe, my Lady- 
bird is safe. 

Curtain 



74 Dramatization [second Year 



DAVID SWAN: A FANTASY 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 
PREFATORY NOTE 
David Siran {Twice-Told Tales) presents a unique type for dramatic 
treatment. It is a fantasy, not a study in action. David Swan, the 
sleeping hoy, is the center of interest, and arouses in the various 
passers-by feelings and thoughts as diverse as their characters. At 
the end, the author's reflections are given in an Epilogue. This 
dramatization offers an opportunity for character interpretation. 

( Jharacters: 
David Strati. Their Servant. 

A Middle-aged Widow. A Pretty Young Girl. 

A Temperance Lecturer. First Il<>l>hcr. 
An Elderly Merchant. nd Robber. 

His I 1 A Youth. 

J% ut of doors. In >und is a public high- 

way; in the background, /roods; (it the left, u elutu/> of trees 

under which David Swan lies pea eeping, his head 

resting on a handle of clothes. The time is noon of a sum titer's 

day. As the curtain rises the Middle-aged Widow, carrying 
a basket, inters (right), and walks slowly down the highway, 
until she discovers the sh< ping boy. Tht n she stops, and 

steps aside to look at him. 

The Widow. How charming the young fellow looks i?i 
his sleep! He is tired out with lii> Ion- walk, doubtless, 
and needs this slumber. He is as innocent as a babe. 
Sleep on, dear boy, sleep on! 

Site walks off the stage left as the Temperance Lecturer 
enters, tracts in hand (right). 
The Temperance Lecturer. [Stopping as he discovers 

David] Another awful instance of dead drunkenness by 
the roadside! And such a comely face, too. Some poor 
mother is in tears over this wayward lad, and some poor 



Second Year] David Swan 75 

young girl's heart is nigh to breaking. [Taking out his 
note-book] One more case of youth gone astray because 
of cursed liquor ! A note for my evening lecture. 

Goes out {left) as the Elderly Merchant and his Wife 
enter {right) talking. 

The Merchant. [To his Wife] Let us rest here, beside 
the road while John mends the wheel to the carriage. A 
linch-pin has fallen out. But it won't take him long to 
repair the damage. [They discover David] But who is 
here? Only a young lad tired out with his long journey. 
We will be quiet and not disturb his slumber. 

His Wife. [Sitting down in the shade and looking at David 
from time to time as they talk almost in whispers] Dear 
lad ! Such sleep as that comes only to a clear conscience ! 

The Merchant. [Standing beside his Wife and gazing at David] 
He sleeps soundly indeed ! From what a depth he draws 
that easy breath ! Such sleep as that, brought on without 
an opiate, would be worth more to me than half my in- 
come; for it would suppose health and an untroubled mind. 

His Wife. And youth, besides. Healthy and quiet age 
does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his, 
than our wakefulness. 

She leans over David and smooths a lock of his hair 
tenderly. 

The Merchant. Sh! He stirs! Don't wake him, dear. 

His Wife. [Dreamily] No, no, I won't. Do you know, 
dear, it seems to me as if Providence had laid him here, 
and brought us hither to find him, after our disappoint- 
ment in our cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness 
to our departed Henry. Shall we waken him? 

The Merchant. [Hesitating] To what purpose? We 
know nothing of the youth's character. 

His Wife. That open countenance ! This innocent sleep ! 
[Persuasively] Shall we not waken him, dear? 



76 Dramatization [second Year 

The Merchant. Do you really mean it? You would 
share our home with him? [Pausing] No, No, the risk 
is too great. 
His Wife. [Regretfully] Perhaps it is not wise — But yet. — 

Enter Servant (right). 
Their Servant. The coach is ready, sir. 

They look somewkat embarrassed. 
The Merchant. Very well, John. [He help* his Wife to 
ri.se. Then they hurry off (right) in evident confusion] 

Enter (right) the Pretty Young Girl, a basket of flowers on 
Iter arm. She trips lightly across the stage singing, but 
stops .suddenly as she discovers that her shoe is unlaced. 

Tm; Girl. Oh, dear, I nearly tripped over that shoe lace! 

I must stop and tie it. [She goes to the shelter of the 

trees, sets the basket doirn. and starts back OS she sees the 
sleeper, then stops] He is sound asleep. I'll make no 
Doise. [She sits dawn and ties her shoe, then rises and gazes 

at the sleeper] Oil, how handsome he is! IIow sound he 

.sleeps! [She takes up her basket and drops a flower at his 

feet, mores sloirly airay from him. tooling back the while, 
and finally disappears (left), all the merriment gone out of 
her manner] 

Enter from the rear through the woods, tiro Robbers. 
They stop as they come upon David. 

First Robber. Hist! Do you sec that bundle under 
his head? 

SecondRobber. [Nodding and leering at David] I should say! 

First Robber. I'll bet you a horn of brandy that the 
chap has either a pocket-book, or a -snug little hoard of 
small change stowed away amongst his shirts. And if 
not there, we shall find it in his pantaloons' pocket. 

Second Robber. But how if he wakes? 

First Robber. [Thrusting aside his waistcoat, and point- 
ing to the handle of a dirk] That's easy. 



Second Year] DaVld Swan 77 

Second Robber. So be it! [They approach the unconscious 
David. One points the dagger toward his heart, while the 
other begins to search the bundle beneath his head. David 
sleeps peacefully on] I must take away the bundle. 
First Robber. If he stirs, I '11 strike. 

Enter (right) a Youth gayly singing. 
Second Robber. Pshaw! We can do nothing now. 
First Robber. Let's take a drink and be off. 

He thrusts the dagger back into his bosom, draws a 
flask from his pocket, takes a drink, and then offers it to his 
companion. They skulk back into the woods and dis- 
appear. In the meantime the Youth goes off the stage (left) 
without discovering David. David moves in his sleep, 
throws up his arms, yawns, and gets up slowly. 
David. Well, I feel better now. That hour's sleep did 
me worlds of good. [Slinging his pack over his back, he 
steps toward the front of the stage] And now up and away 
to Boston town, for I must reach there before sunset! 
He goes off (right), merrily whistling. 
Curtain 
Epilogue 
Delivered before the curtain: 

And he knew not that a phantom of Wealth had 
thrown a golden hue upon the waters of his life, — nor 
that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, — 
nor that one of Death had threatened to crimson them 
with his blood, — all, in the brief hour since he lay down 
to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear not the airy 
footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. 
Does it not argue a superintending Providence that, 
while viewless and unexpected events thrust themselves 
continually athwart our path, there should still be 
regularity enough, in mortal life, to render foresight 
even partially available? 



78 Dramatization [second Year 

KIDNAPPED 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The episodes selected from Kidnapped are designed primarily for 
classroom presentation. The tir>t is taken from chap. iii. For Ebene- 
ipening question and David's reply, the indirect discourse of the 
text is changed t<> direct. Then the action and dialogue follow the 
original closely as far as David's delivery of the message of Jennet 
Clouston. The description of Jennet in this speech is taken from 

chap. ii. This episode and the second from chap, vi give a clear insight 

into the character of David's uncle. At the close of the dialogue, in 
the second episode, David's thoughts are turned into a short soliloquy. 

The third and fourth episodes from chap, xxiv are really a single unit 
separated into two scenes in order to make the journey mote realistic 

and t«» account for the change in David's physical condition. 

David's FlBST MORNING at THE BOUSE of SHAWB 

( lharacto 
David Balfour, 
Ebein u /-. David's Uncle. 

This episode may be given in tin- classroom as a dramatic 
reading, or with a very simple setting. The scene is the 

kitchen of the House of Shows, meatjerhj furnished. The 
only necessary furniture and properties are a bare wooden 
table set with tiro bonis, tiro spoons, and a beer mug, two 
chairs, a/id a cupboard. The conversation begins toward the 
close of the frugal meal. 

Ebenezer. Would ye like a drink of ale? 
David. I am used to it, but do not put yourself about, 
Uncle Ebenezer! 



second Year] Kidnapped 79 

Ebenezer. Na, na! I'll deny you nothing in reason. 

He brings another mug, and, to David's surprise, divides 

the ale in half, instead of bringing more. At the close of the 

meal, Ebenezer gets out a clay pipe from a drawer, fills it, and 

sits near the ivindow. David sits on a stool not far away. 

Ebenezer. Your mother — is she alive? 

David. She, too, is dead. 

Ebenezer. Ay, she was a bonnie lassie! — Whae were 
these friends of yours? 

David. Different gentlemen of the name of Campbell. 

Ebenezer. [Thoughtfully] Davie, my man, ye've come 
to the right bit when ye came to your Uncle Ebenezer. 
I've a great notion of the family, and I mean to do the 
right by you. But while I'm taking a bit think to 
myself of what's the best thing to put you to — whether 
the law or the meenistry, or maybe the army, whilk is what 
boys are fondest of — I wouldnae like the Balfours to be 
humbled before a wheen Hieland Campbells, and I '11 ask 
you to keep your tongue within your teeth. Nae letters; 
nae messages'; no kind of word to onybody; or else — 
there's my door. [Pointing dramatically] 

David. [Rising] Uncle Ebenezer, I've no manner of reason 
to suppose you mean anything but well by me. For 
all that, I would have you to know that I have a pride 
of my own. It was by no will of mine that I came 
seeking you; and if you show me your door again, I'll 
take you at the word. 

Ebenezer. Hoots-toots, ca' cannie man — ca' cannie! 
Bide a day or two. I'm nae warlock to find a fortune 
for you in the bottom of the parritch bowl; but just you 
give me a day or two, and say naething to naebody, 
and as sure as sure, I'll do the right by you. 

David. [Seating himself] Very well; enough said. If you want 
to help me, there's no doubt I'll be glad of it, and none but 



80 Dramatization [second Year 

I'll be grateful. [Rather haughtily] But I must have my bed 
aired and put to sun-dry. I cannot sleep in such a bed again. 

Ebenezer. [Beginning wrathfully, then suddenly changing] 
Is this my house or yours? Na, na, I dinnae mean that. 
What's mine is yours, Davie my man, and what's yours 
is mine. Blood is thicker than water; and there's nae- 
body but you and me that ought the name. 

David. [With a .start] I've a message for you, Uncle Eben- 
ezer. I almost forgot. On the way hither, I met a 
stout, dark, sour-looking woman, and when I asked her 
the way to the House of Shaws, she called down a curse 
upon the place and bade me — 

Ebenezeb. [Rifting in wrath] Thelimmer! A witch! A pro- 
claimed witch! I'll all" and sec the session clerk. [Tak- 
ing up a doak and beaver hoi] 1 cannae leave you by 

yourself in the house, David. I'll have to lock you out. 

David, [striding toward Ebenezer] If you lock me out, 

it'll he the last you'll mv of me in friendship. 

Ebenezeb. [Avoiding David's eye*, and looking at the 

floor] This is no the way to win my favor, David. 

David. Sir, I was brought up to have a good conceit of 

myself — I wouldn't buy your liking at such a price! 
Ebenezeb. [Looking out of the window trembling and 

twitching like a man with palsy — then turning to Darid 
with a forced, cunning smile] Well, well, we must bear 
and forbear. [Seating himself] I'll no go; that's all 
that's to be said of it. 
David. Uncle Ebenezer, I can make nothing out of this. 
You use me like a thief; you hate to have me in this 
house; you let me see it, every word and every minute; 
it's not possible that you can like me; and as for me, 
I've spoken to you as I never thought to speak to any man. 
Why do you seek to keep me, then? Let me gang back — 
let me gang back to the friends I have, and that like me ! 



second Year] Kidnapped 81 

Ebenezer. [Earnestly] Na, na, I like ye fine; we'll agree 
fine yet; and for the honor of the house I couldnae let 
you leave the way ye came. Bide here quiet, there's a 
good lad; just you bide here quiet a bittie, and ye'll 
find that we agree. 

David. [Sitting down again] Well, sir, I'll stay awhile. 
It's more just I should be helped by my own blood than 
strangers; and if we don't agree, I'll do my best it shall 
be through no fault of mine. 
Curtain 

The Revelation 

Characters : 
The Landlord. 
David. 

The scene is the interior of the Inn at the Queen's Ferry. 

David. Do you know Mr. Rankeillor, Landlord? 

Landlord. Hoot, ay, and a very honest man. And, O, — 
by-the-bye, was it you that came in with Ebenezer? 

David. Yes! 

Landlord. Ye'll be no relative of his? 

David. [Cautiously] No, none. 

Landlord. I thought not, and yet ye have a kind of gliff 
of Mr. Alexander. 

David. Ebenezer seems ill-seen in the country. 

Landlord. Nae doubt; he's a wicked auld man, and 
there's many would like to see him girning in a tow: 
Jennet Clouston and mony mair that he has harried out 
of house and hame. And yet he was ance a fine young 
fellow, too. But that was before the sough gaed abroad 
about Mr. Alexander; that was like the death of him. 

David. And what was it? 



82 Dramatization [second Year 

Landlord. Oh, just that he had killed him. Did ye 

never hear that? 
David. And what would he kill him for? 
Landlord. And what for, but just to get the place! 
David. The place? The.Shaws? 
Landlord. Nae other place thai I ken. 
David. Ay, man — Is that so? Was my — was Alexander 

the eldest son? 
Landlord. Deed was he. Wha1 else would he have killed 

him for? 

The Landlord goes out. David sits down wrapped in 
meditation. 
David. I guessed it a long while ago. [Straightening up\ 

Am I the same poor tad who trudged in the dust from 

Ettrick Forest Dot ten days ago! Why, If this is true, 

I 'in master of the Sh;r 

I > i id's soliloquy is interrupted by Ebenezer's voice 
calling "David! David!** 

( nrhiin 

The Quarrel 

Characters: 
Dqa id. 

Alan. 

Tin her. David and Alan arc walking 

together. At first Alan is hurl: <>f David. Later Alan > 

to David's 

Alan. David, this is no way for two friends to take a small 

accident. I have to say that I'm sorry; and so that 'a 
said. And now if you have anything, ye'd better say it. 

David. O, I have nothing. 

Alan. [With trembling voice] No, — but when I said I 
was to blame? 



second Year] Kidnapped 83 

David. [Coolly] Why, of course ye were to blame; and 
you will bear me out that I have never reproached you! 

Alan. Never, but ye ken very well that ye've done worse. 
Are we to part? Ye said so once before. Are ye to say 
it again? There's hills and heather enough between 
here and the two seas, David; and I will own I'm no 
very keen to stay where I'm no wanted. 

David. [With mixture of anger and shame] Alan Breck! 
Do you think I am one to turn my back on you in your 
chief need? You dursn't say it to my face. My whole 
conduct's there to give the lie to it. It's true, I fell 
asleep upon the muir; but that was from weariness, and 
you do wrong to cast it up to me — 

Alan. Which is what I never did. 

David. But aside from that, what have I done that you 
should even me to dogs by such a supposition? I never 
yet failed a friend, and it's not likely I'll begin with you. 
There are things between us that I can never forget, even 
if you can. 

Alan. I will only say this to ye, David, that I have long 
been owing ye my life, and now I owe ye money, Ye 
should try to make that burden light for me. 

David. [Venting his wrath on Alan] You asked me to speak. 
Well, then, I will. You own yourself that you have done 
me a disservice ; I have had to swallow an affront : I have 
never reproached you, I never named the thing till you 
did. And now you blame me, because I cannae laugh and 
sing as if I was glad to be affronted. The next thing will 
be that I 'm to go down upon my knees and thank you 
for it! Ye should think more of others, Alan Breck. 
If ye thought more of others, ye would perhaps speak 
less about yourself; and when a friend that liked you 
very well has passed over an offense without a word, 
you would be blithe to let it lie, instead of making it a 



84 Dramatization [second Year 

stick to break his back with. By your own way of it, 
it was you that was to blame; then it shouldnae be you 
to seek the quarrel. 
Alan. Aweel, Davie, say nae mair! 
Curtain 

The Reconciliation 

Characters: 

David. 
Alan. 

The scene is the .same; the time, a little later. David is 
almost exhausted. 

Ai.w. [Tauntingly] Here's a <lul> for ye to jump, my 

Whiggie! I ken you're a fine jumper! 
David. [With quivering voice] Mr. Stewart, you are older 

than I am. and should kimw your manners. Do you 

think it either very wise or very witty t<> cast my polities 
in my teeth? I though! where folk differed, it was the 
partof gentlemen to differ civilly; and it' I did not. I may 

tell you I could find a better taunt than some of yoUTS. 
. 1 Ian, Stopping opposite David, — hat cocked % hands in 

pocket, head to one si<le, irith taunting smile, — whistles 

an air. 
David. [Angrily] Why do ye take that air, Mr. Stew- 
art? [s that to remind me you have been beaten on 

both sides? 
Alan. David! 
David. But it's time these manners ceased, and I mean 

you shall henceforth speak civilly of my King and my 

good friends the Campbells. 
Alan. I am a Stewart. 
David. 0! I ken ye bear a king's name. But you are to 

remember, since I have been in the Highlands, I have 



second Year] Kidnapped 85 

seen a good many of those that bear it; and the best 
I can say of them is this, that they would be none the 
worse of washing. 

Alan. [Very low] Do you know that you insult me? 

David. I am sorry for that, for I am not done; and if you 
distaste the sermon, I doubt the pirliecue will please you 
as little. You have been chased in the field by the 
grown men of my party ; it seems a poor kind of pleasure 
to outface a boy. Both the Campbells and the Whigs 
have beaten you; you have run before them like a hare. 
It behoves you to speak of them as of your betters. 

Alan. [Stands still, facing David] This is a pity. There 
are things said that cannot be passed over. 

David. I never asked you to. I am as ready as yourself. 

Alan. Ready? 

David. Ready! I am no blower and boaster like some 
that I could name. Come on! 

David draws sword, and falls on guard. 

Alan. David! Are ye daft? I cannae draw upon ye, 
David. It's fair murder! 

David. That was your look-out when you insulted me. 

Alan. It's the truth! It's the bare truth. [He draws his 
sword, instantly throws it from him and falls to the ground] 
Na, na, I cannae, I cannae! 

David watches him for a moment. His expression sud- 
denly changes to one of agony. 

David. Alan! Alan! If you cannae help me, I must just 
die here. [Alan starts, sits up, and looks at David] It's 
true. I'm by with it. O, let me get into the bield of a 
house. I '11 can die there easier. 

Alan. [Rising] Can ye walk? 

David. No, not without help. This last hour, my legs 
have been fainting under me; I've a stitch in my side 
like a red-hot iron; I cannae breathe right. If I die, 



86 Dramatization [second Year 

ye '11 can forgive me, Alan? In my heart, I liked ye fine 
— even when I was the angriest. 

Alan. Wheesht, wheesht! Dinnae say that! David, 
man, ye ken — [Breaking off to hide emotion] Let me get 
my arm about ye. — That's the way! Now lean upon 
me hard. Gude kens where there's a house! We're in 
Balwhidder, too; there should be no want of houses, no, 
nor friends' houses, here. Do you gang easier so, Davie? 

DAVID. Ay, I can be doing this way. 

Al.w. [Sadly] Davie, I'm no a right man at all; I have 
neither sense nor kindness; 1 couldnae remember ye 
were jusl ;i bairn, 1 couldnae see ye were dying on your 
feet; Davie, ye'U have t«» try and forgive me. 

David. Oh, man. let's Bay no more about it! We're 
neither one of US to mend the other that's the truth! 
We musl just bear and forbear, man Alan! (), but my 

stitch is -<ue! [s there nae bouse? 

Ai.w. I'll find a bouse to ye, David. We'll follow down 
the burn, where there's bound to be bouses. My poor 
man, will ye do be better on my hack? 

David. 0, Alan, and me a good twelve Inches taller? 

Ai.w. [Standing still and drawing himself up proudly] Ye 're 
aosucb a thing! There may he a trifling matter of an inch 
or two; I'm no saying just exactly what ye would call 
a tall man. whatever; and I daresay, [his voice tailing 
off in a laughable manner] now when I come to think of 
it, I daresay yell be just about right. Ay, it'll he a 
foot, or near hand: or maybe even m.iir! 

David. Alan, what makes ye bo good to me? What makes 
ye care for such a thankless fellow? 

Alan. Deed, and I don't know. For just precisely 
what I thought I liked about ye, was that ye never 
quarreled; — and now I like ye better! 

As they take up their journey again, the curtain goes down. 






second Year] The Adventure of My Aunt 87 

THE ADVENTURE OF MY AUNT 

Washington Irving 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The dramatization of The Adventure of My Aunt (Tales of a Traveller) 
enhances, perhaps, the humor of the story and makes an amusing epi- 
sode for high school presentation. The only change of text necessary 
for the adaptation is the turning of much of the indirect into direct 
discourse. 

Characters : 

" My Aunt The Cook. 

The Maid. ' The Butler. 

The Steward. The Robber, 

^the Coachman. The Footman. 

The scene represents a lady's boudoir. At the right, 
stands a dressing table, a chair before it. At the left, is a 
couch near ivhich stands a small table. A roughly sketched 
full length portrait of a man, the head supplied by that of the 
Robber, hangs against curtains at the rear of the stage, thus 
allowing for the concealment of the Robber's body. The dres- 
sing table is so placed that the portrait is reflected in the 
mirror. As the curtain rises, My Aunt enters, followed by 
the Maid carrying, in one hand, a lighted candle, in the other, 
a tray containing a water pitcher and glass. She places the 
candle on the dressing table, the tray on the table. 

My Aunt. That will do, Hawkins. I shall not need your 

services tonight. You may go. 
The Maid. [Making a curtsy] Very well, my lady. 

Exit Maid. My Aunt sits down at the dressing table 

and looks critically at herself in the mirror. 
My Aunt. Yes, the wrinkles are coming. 'Tis sad but true. 



88 Dramatization [second jett 

[Arranging her hair] And the gray hairs too! [Leans 
back in the chair and folds Iter hands in her lap] I wonder if 
the Squire, when he called to welcome me to my country 
home today, thought I had changed much in these twenty 
years. He certainly has. What a slender youth he was! 
And now [turning round and looking at the portrait] he is 
almost a^ portly as my dear, departed Henry. [She sighs 
deeply and gazes long and steadily at the picture. Then .she 
turns again to the mirror] Well, enough of dreaming. I 
must make myself ready for another kind of dreams. [She 
leans forwards gazes, in the glass and prepares to take down 
her hair. Suddenly she turns round, as a slight noise is 
In ard, but as she sees nothing, turns again, and busies herself 

once more irith her hat r\ Why, I'm a bit nervous tonight. 

'Twas Dothing surely bul a mouse. Dear Henry! 

■ sigh. The sigh is distinctly 
4 stir, but < dly in the mir- 

arently at her own image, but really of the reflec- 
tion of the portrait in the mirror. She gives a start as she 
notices that the head moves, but rapidly recovers herself and 

goes on deliberately arranging her hair, humming u tune 

the while. 
My A i \t. [Yawning] Oh, I'm so sleepy. s /" casually 
overturns a jewel box] My, how stupid of me! [She takes 

(he candle and picks up i one by one and 

replaces litem] Now I've found them all. [She is about 
to sit down again, but suddenly stops] Oh, I forgot to 
tell Hawkins to wake me early for that horseback ride 
with the Squire. I'll go tell her now. [She goes to the 
door, looks out for an instant, and then walkt 
The Robber. [Putting out his head and looking around the 
room] My, but I thought this eye of mine, which will 
wink had let the cat out of the bag. But she didn't 
thank the Lord! [Chuckling] 



second Year] The Adventure of My Aunt 89 

The Robber's head is quickly drawn back as the door is 
pushed open. Enter the following procession: My Aunt, 
leading, with a poker in her hand; the Steward, with a 
rusty blunderbuss; the Coachman, with a loaded whip; the 
Footman, with a pair of horse-pistols; the Cook, flourishing 
a huge chopping -knife; the Butler, a bottle in each hand; 
the Maid, half fainting, with a bottle of smelling salts to her 
nose, bringing up the rear. My Aunt leads the procession 
around the room, and, when she reaches the portrait 
suddenly halts. 

The Maid. O, I'm afraid of the ghostesses, my lady. 

My Aunt. [Resolutely] Ghosts! I '11 singe their whiskers 
for them! [Flourishing her poker] Pull down that pic- 
ture! [A heavy groan and a sound like the chattering of 
teeth issue from behind the picture. The servants all 
shrink back] Instantly! [In a commanding tone] 

The men step forward rather unwillingly, each trying to 
push the other first. They finally all together seize the por- 
trait and pull it down. My Aunt steps up, parts the cur- 
tains that hang behind the picture and discloses the Robber 
standing on a small stool. In one hand is a long knife. 
He is trembling like an aspen-leaf. Dropping the knife, 
he falls on his knees before My Aunt. 

The Robber. [Whining] Mercy! Mercy! My lady! 
'Twas but intended as a joke to scare you all. 

The Butler. [Shaking his bottles at the Robber, then turning 
to My Aunt] Why, your ladyship, this is Dan, the dis- 
missed coachman. [To the Robber] Mercy! You rascal! 
Hanging would be more like it! 

My Aunt. [Sternly] Rise, fellow. [To the Butler and the Cook] 
Take this fellow to the horse-pond. Cleanse him well and 
rub him down with an oaken towel. Then let him 
go. [To the servants] And now you are dismissed for the 
night. 



90 Dramatization [second Year 

They form in line, the Butler and Cook holding the Robber 
by the twists, leading, and march out of the room. 
My Aunt. [Seating herself once more at her dressing table, 
and apparently talking to her image] Well! If such little 
disturbances as this arc a nightly occurrence in this big 
house, the Squire shall have my answer tomorrow. 
Curtain 



THIRD YEAR 



SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 

Matthew Arnold 
PREFATORY NOTE 

The following episodes have been selected from Matthew Arnold's 
Schrab and Rustum as the best units for dramatization. If a more 
elaborate performance is desired, the incident of the challenge, in Rus- 
tum's tent, might be worked up as a second scene, coming between the 
two here given, or it could be presented as a separate episode. 

A word of caution may be necessary concerning the demonstration 
of grief in scene ii. While the dignity of the lines, the tragedy of the 
situation, and the pervading atmosphere of the scene are, in themselves, 
safeguards against exaggeration, the action should be more restrained 
than that suggested by the text, in order to avoid any hint of the 
melodramatic. 

Scene I 

Sohrab's Plea 

Characters : 
Sohrab. 
Peran-Wisa. 

The stage represents the interior of Peran-Wisa' s tent. 
The oriental setting may be suggested by an arrangement 
of curtains, rugs, and cushions. As the curtain rises, Peran- 
Wisa is discovered lying on a bed of rugs. The stage is in 
darkness except for a dim light burning in Peran-Wisa' stent. 
If a more elaborate setting is desired, and painted scenery is 
available, the tent may be made to occupy only a part of the 



8 Dramatization [Third Year 

stage, the rest representing the desert surroundings, with a 
painted background picturing the river Oxus winding into tJie 
distance. During the progress of the dialogue, the light on 
the stage grows gradually brighter, though it never reaches the 
full light of day. As Sohrab enters, Peran-Wisa partially 
rises, leaning on one arm. 
Peran-Wisa. 

Who art thou? for it i- Dot yet dear dawn. 

Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm? 
Sohrab. 

Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa! it is i. 

The sun is not yet risen, and t he foe 

Sleep, but I deep not ; all night long I li 

rossing and wakeful; and I come to tin i 
//> kneels by the bed. 
Peran-Wisa. 

What brings thee here, before the day appears? 
Sohb LB. 

I seek thy counsel as Airasiab bid, 

And I will tell thee what my heart desires 

Peran-Wisa. 

Speak. l»oy, ami 1 will heed thee ;i- ni\ 

Sohrab. 

Thou know'st it', since from A.der-baijan first 
I came among the Tartar- and bore arm-. 
I have still serv'd Airasiab well, and - 
At my boy's year-, the courage of a man. 

Peran-Wisa. 

Thy dauntless spirit every Tartar knows. 

Sohrab. 

Come then, hear now. and grant me what I ask! 
Let the two armies rest today: but I 
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lord- 
To meet me, man to man: if I prevail, 



Third Year] Sohrab and RustUTTl 

Rustum will surely hear it: if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
He rises and walks up and down. 

Peran-Wisa. 

Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 
And share the battle's common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 
In single fight incurring single risk, 
To find a father thou hast never seen? 

Sohrab. 

Dim is the rumor of a common fight, 

Where host meets host, and many names are sunk; 

But of a single combat fame speaks clear. 

Peran-Wisa. 

But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 

To seek out Rustum, seek him not through fight! 

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 

O Sohrab! carry an unwounded son! 

Sohrab. 

Nay, would great Rustum's heart rejoice to find 
A son like this, content to dwell at ease 
In Tartar camp? — O grant me my desire! 
He kneels again. 

Peran-Wisa. [Placing his hand on SohraVs head] 
Go, if thou must — and yet my heart forebodes 
Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 
Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 
To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 
To seek thy father, not seek single fights 
In vain. But who can keep the lien's cub 
Prom ravening, and who govern Rustum's son? 
Go! I will grant thee what thy heart desires. 
He rises from the couch. Sohrab takes his leave. 
Curtain 



10 Dramatization [Third Year 

Scene II 
The Recognition 

Characters : 

Soli rah. 
Ixii si inn. 

The stage represents the scene of the combat. The same 
setting may he used as in the first scene with the tent removed. 
The stage is in semi-darkness. The curtain rises on the 
cry of "Rustuml" behind the scenes, as Sohrab falls fatally 
wounded. Rustum stands over the prostrate Sohrab. 

Hi -tim. [Scornfully] 

Sohrab, thou thoughtesl 'm thy mind t * > kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Airasiab's tent; 
Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 

Hi- heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 

And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 

To glad thy father in hi- weak old age. 

Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man! 

Sohrab. 

Unknown thou art; yet thy tierce vaunt i- vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud ami boastful man! 
No! Rustum slays me. ami this filial heart. 
For that beloved name unnerv'd my arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee. 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
Fall; and thy spear transfix'd an unarm 'd foe. 



Third Year] Sohrab and Rustum 11 

And now thou boastest, and insult 'st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear: 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! 
My father, whom I seek through all the world, 
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee! 

Rustum. [Still cold and unmoved] 

What prate is this of fathers and revenge? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son. 

Sohrab. [With failing voice] 

Ah, yes, he had! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear, 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be? 
Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, 
With spoils, and honor, when the war is done. 
Sohrab bows his head. 

Rustum. 

O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 

Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have lov'd. 

Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 

Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's son, 

For Rustum had no son; one child he had — 

But one — a girl; who with her mother now 

Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — 

Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war! 

Sohrab. [Raising himself on one arm with great difficulty y 
wrathfully] 

Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? 



12 Dramatization [Third Year 

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 

And falsehood, while I liv'd, was far from mine. 

I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm I bear 

The seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 

That she might prick it on the babe she bore. 
Rustum. 

Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie! 

[f thou show this, then art thou Rustum's sou. 

Sohrab bares his arm. Rustum looks closely at the bared 

arm in the dim light. 
Sohrab. 

How say'st thou? I- tli.it si-n tin- proper sign 

Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's? 
Iii -Ti if. [At first speechless, then uttering <i sharp cry] 

o boy thy father! . . . 
Sohrab. Once more raises himself on his arm <nt<l cries 

aloud with joy] 

Rustum! My father! thee I live to greel ! 
Ri -ri if. 

My son! And yet they told me that the babe 

Which was in A.der-baijan born to me, 

Bad been a puny L r irl do boy at all ! 

And now he lie- here smitten by my hand! 

Why should I longer li\ <■: ... 

//, reaches for his sword but Sohrab stays his hand. 

SOHB IB. 

Father forbear! tor I hut meet today, 
The doom which at my birth was written down 
In Heaven; and thou ait Heaven's unconscious hand. 
But let us -peak no more of this! I find 
My father; let me feel that I have found! 
Come, sit beside me on this -and. and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks. 



Third Year] Sohrab and Rustum 13 

And wash them with thy tears, and say, "My son!" 
Quick! quick! for number'd are my sands of life. 
The poem itself suggests action for Rustum. 
Rustum. 

Oh, that the waves of this great Oxus stream, 
The yellow Oxus, by whose brink thou liest, 
Were flowing over me, my son! my son! 

SOHRAB. 

Desire not that, my father! thou must live. 
For some are born to do great deeds and live, 
As some are born to be obscur'd, and die! 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 
And reap a second glory in thine age; 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come! thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! 
Let me entreat for them; what have they done? 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou mast bear hence, not send with them, 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry: 
"Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there, 
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill!" 
And I be not forgotten in my grave. 
Rustum. 

Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, 
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me. 
What should I do with slaying any more? 
For would that all that I have ever slain 



14 Dramatization [Third Year 

Might be once "more alive; my bitterest foes, 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! 
Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine; 
Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou; 

SOHRAB. 

Not yet!- but thou shall yet have peace, Dot now, — 
But thou shall have it on some far-oil' day, 
When thou shall Bail in a high-masted -hip. 
Thou and the other peers ol Kai Khosroo, 
Returning home over the sail blue sea, 
Prom laying thy dear master in his grave. 

Ri BTl If. 

Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! 
Till then, if fate so mils, let m<- endure. 
Sohb IB. 

() father, draw the spear from out m y side, 
To ease the imperious anguish of my wound! 

R Hum draws the spear . Sohrab falls back. 
Great Elustum! Father ! — 

The curtain goes down as Rustum falls prostrate across 
the body of Sohrab. 



Third Year] SUdS Mamer 15 



SILAS MARNER 

George Eliot 
PREFATORY NOTE 

Silas Mamer furnishes an attractive theme for a four-scene play 
showing the transformation of Silas through the coming of the golden- 
haired Eppie, in place of the lost gold. Chaps, vi, vii, xiii, xiv, xvi, and 
xix are utilized in the dramatization. In accordance with the general 
plan followed in this book, the scenes are reduced to their simplest terms. 
The principal changes in the story are as follows: the change in the time 
of Godfrey's visit to Silas (chap, xiii) from night to morning; the 
combination of this episode with Dolly Winthrop's conference with 
Silas (chap, xiv); the transfer of the conversation between Silas and 
Eppie (chap, xvi) from out-of-doors to the cottage of Silas, in order to 
simplify the problem of staging, by avoiding the necessity of shifting 
scenery between scenes iii and iv. 

Scene I 

The Night of Despair 

Characters : 
Mr. Snell, the Landlord. Ben Winthrop, the Wheelwright. 
Mr. Macey, the Tailor and Silas Mamer. 

Parish Clerk. Jem Rodney. 

Bob Lundy, the Butcher. Mr. Dowlas, the Farrier. 
Other Villagers. 

The scene is the kitchen of the Rainbow Tavern. Some of the 
men are seated at tables, with mugs of ale before them; others, 
on benches about the room. As the curtain rises, all eyes are 
directed toward Mr. Macey, who is speaking. The men 
sit, pipes in hand, suspending their smoking to listen. 

Mr. Macey. Well, yes, the wedding turned out all right, 
on'y poor Mrs. Lammeter — that's Miss Osgood as was — 
died afore the lasses was growed up; but for prosperity and 
everything respectable, there's no family more looked on. 



16 Dramatization 



[Third Year 



Mr. Snell. Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, 
didn't they say, when lie come into these parts? 

Mr. Macey. Well, yes, but I dare say it's as much as this 
Mr. Lammeter 's done to keep it whole. For there was al- 
lays a talk as nobody could gel rich on the Warrens: though 
he holds it cheap, for it's what they call Charity Land. 

Bob. Ay, and there's few folks know so well as you how 
it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey? 

Mb. Macey. [Contemptuously] How should they? Why. 
my grandfather made the groom's livery for thai Mr. 
Cliff as came and l>nilt the big stables at the Warrens. 
Why. they're stables four times a-* big a> Squire Cass's, 
for be thoughl o' nothing bul bosses and bunting, Cliff 
didn't a Lunnoii tailor, some folks said, as bad gone 
mad wi' cheating. For be couldn't ride; lor' bless you! 
Ibit ride be would, as it' Old Harry bad been a-driving 

him: and he'd a son, B lad o' sixteen; and nothing 

would bis father bave him do, but h<- musl ride and 
ride though the lad was frighted, they said, and the 
poor lad got sickly and died, and tin- father didn't live 
Long after him. lor be got queerer nor ever, and they 
said be used to go out V the dead o' th<- night, wi' a 
lantern in bis hand, to the stables, and set a lot o 1 
lights burning, for be got as be couldn't sleep; and 
there hcM stand, cracking bis whip and looking at his 
bosses; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn't 
burnt down wi' tin- poor dumb creatura in Ym. 
[Stops <i moment to recover his breathy takes a drink and 
then cont i nues\ But at last he died raving, and they 
found as he'd left all his property, Warrens and all, 
to a Lunnon Charity, and that's how the Warrens 
come to be Charity Land; though, as for the 
stable.-, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em they're out 
o' all charicter — lor' bless you! if you was to set the 



Third Year] Silas Mamer 17 

doors a-banging in 'em, it 'ud sound like thunder half 
o'er the parish. 

Mr. Snell. Ay, but there's more going on in the stables 
than what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey? 

Mr. Macey. [Winking mysteriously] Ay, ay; go that way 
of a dark night, that's all, and then make believe, if you 
like, as you didn't see lights i' the stables, nor hear the 
stamping o' the hosses, nor the cracking o' the whips, 
and howling, too, if it's tow'rt daybreak. "Cliff's Holi- 
day" has been the name of it ever sin' I were a boy; 
that's to say, some said as it was the holiday Old Harry 
gev him from roasting, like. [Men lay down pipes and 
lean forward] That's what my father told me, and he 
was a reasonable man, though there's folks nowadays 
know what happened afore they were born better nor 
they know their own business. 

Mr. Snell. [Turning to the Farrier] What do you say to 
that, eh, Dowlas? There's a nut for you to crack. 

Mr. Dowlas. [Eagerly seizing the cue] Say? I say what 
a man should say as doesn't shut his eyes to look at a 
finger-post. I say, as I'm ready to wager any man ten 
pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any dry night in the 
pasture before the Warren stables, as we shall neither 
see lights nor hear noises, if it isn't the blowing of our 
own noses. That's what I say, and I've said it many 
a time; but there's nobody 'ull ventur a ten-pun' note 
on their ghos'es as they make so sure of. 

Ben. Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is. You 
might as well bet a man as he wouldn't catch the rheu- 
matise if he stood up to's neck in the pool of a frosty 
night. It 'ud be fine fun for a man to win his bet as 
he'd catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in Cliff's 
Holiday aren't a-going to ventur near it for a matter 
o' ten pound. 



18 Dramatization 



[Third Yer.r 



Mr. Macey. [With a sarcastic smile, tupping his thumbs 
together] If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on 
it, he's no call to lay any bet — let him go and stall' by 
himself — there's nobody nil hinder him; and then he 
can Lei the parish'ners know if they're wrong. 

Mr. Dowlas. [SeornfuUy] Thank you! I'm obliged 
to you. Ii' folks are fools, it 's no business o' mine. / 
don't want to make out the truth about ghos'es; I know 

it a 'ready. Bui I'm not againsl a bet —everything 

fair and open. Let any man bet me ten pound as I shall 

Cliff's Boliday s and I'll go and stand by myself. I 

want no company. I «1 ;i> lief do it as I 'd till this pipe. 

BOB, Ah, hnt who's to watch you. Dowlas, and >ee you 

do it P That 's no fair l«-t . 
Mb. Dowlas. [Angrily] No fair bet? I should like to 

bear any man Btand up and say I want to bet unfair. 

Come now, Master Lundy, I should like to hear you 

say it. 

Hon. Very like you would. But it 's no business o' mine. 
You're none <>' my bargains, and 1 aren't i try 

and *l>ate your price. [f anybody 'II bid for you at your 
own vallying, let him. I m for peace and quietness, I am. 

Mk. Dowlas. Yes, that's what every yapping curia, when 
you bold a stick up at him. Hnt I'm afraid o' neither 
man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a fair bet. / 

aren't a turn-tail CUT. 
Mi;. Sm.i.l [Tolerantly] Ay, but there's this h, it. Dow- 
las. There's folks, \' my opinion, they can't s< e 
not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before 'em. And 
there's a reason i' that. For there's my wile, now, 
can't smell, not if she'd tin- strongest o' cheese under 
her nose. 1 never see'd a ghost myself; hut then 1 say- 
to myself. "Very like I haven't got tie- smell for 'em." 
I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrairiv. 



Third Year] Silas Marner 19 

And so, I'm for holding with both sides; for, as I say, 
the truth lies between 'em. And if Dowlas was to go 
and stand, and say he'd never seen a wink o' Cliff's 
- Holiday all the night through, I'd back him; and if any- 
body said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for all that, 
I'd back him too. For the smell's what I go by. 

Mr. Dowlas. [Impatiently setting his glass down] Tut, 
tut, what's the smell got to do with it? Did ever a 
ghost give a man a black eye? That's what I should 
like to know. If ghos'es want me to believe in 'em, let 
'em leave off skulking i' the dark and i' lone places — 
let 'em come where there's company and candles. 

Mr. Macey. [In a disgiisted tone] As if ghos'es 'ud want 
to be believed in by anybody so ignirant. 

While Mr. Macey is speaking, Silas Marner, pale, hat- 
less, ivith disheveled hair, appears in the doorway. He 
has on an old coat which has been drenched with rain. For 
a moment no one sees him; then the men start, for under 
the influence of the theme of conversation, they have an 
impression that they see an apparition. The Landlord, as 
host, is the first to break the silence. 

Mr. Snell. [In a conciliatory tone] Master Marner, 
what's lacking to you? What's your business here? 

Silas. [Frantically] Robbed! I've been robbed! I want 
the constable — and the Justice — and Squire Cass — and 
Mr. Crackenthorp. 

Mr. Snell. [To Jem Rodney, who is nearest the door] Lay 
hold on him, Jem Rodney; he's off his head, I doubt. 
He's wet through. 

Jem. [Shaking his head and moving farther from Marner] 
Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if you ' ve 
a mind. [Muttering] He's been robbed, and murdered 
too, for what I know. 

Silas. [Turning and fixing his eyes on Jem] Jem Rodney! 



20 Dramatization [Third Year 

Jem. [Trembling, and seizing his drinking-can as a defensive 
weapon] Ay, Master Maimer, what do ye want wi' me? 

Silas. [Clasping his hands entreatingly and raising his voice to 
a cry] If it was you stole my money, give it me back — and I 
won't meddle with you. I won't set the constable on you. 
(live it me back, audi '11 let you — I'll letyouhaveaguinea. 

Jem. [Angrily, taking a step nearer to Silas] Me stole your 
money! I'll pitch this can at your eye if you talk o' my 
Stealing your money. 

Mu. Snbll. [Rising resolutely, and seizing Mamer by the 
shoulder] Come, come, Master Mamer, it" you've got 
any information to lay, speak it ou1 sensible, and show as 
you're in your right mind, if you expeel anybody to 
listen to you, ¥ou're as wet as a drownded rat. Sit 

down and dry yourself, and speak straight i'orrard. 

[Leading him to the fireplace 
Mb. Dowlas. Ah. to be sure, man. Let's have no more 
staring and screaming, else we'll have you strapped tor 

a madman. That was why I didn't Bpeak at the first — 

thinks [, the man's run mad. 
Several Y<u< bs. Ay, ay, make him si! down. 
Mb. Snell. [Forcing Mamer to take off his coat, and to sit 

down On a chair airaij from every one else, in the center of 

the circle, ami in the direct rays of the fire] Now, then. 

Master Mamer, what's this you've got to say — as 

you've been robbed? Speak out. 

Jem. [Hastily] He'd better not say again as it was me 

robbed him. What could I ha' done with his money? 

I could as easy steal the parson's surplice, and wear it. 
Mu. SNELL. Hold your tongue, Jem. and let's hear what 

he's got to say. — Now then. Master Maimer. 
SlLAS. My gold is gone! — that's all I know — taken while 

I went out to get a bit of string I needed in the morning 

for setting up my work! 






Third Year] SUdS Mdmer 21 

Mr. Macey. And did you leave the door open, man? 

Silas. Ay, ay. 

Mr. Dowlas. A foolish thing! 

Mr. Snell. Nay, nay — on such a night — who'd a 
thought o' thieves abroad? 

Mr. Macey. What time o' the evening did it 
happen? 

Silas. [Shaking his head] I can't rightly tell. I left my 
supper — a bit o' pork — baking before the fire. It may 
ha' been two hours since. 

Mr. Snell. [Laying his hand on Marner s shoulder] It 
isn't Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master Marner. 
You mustn't be a-casting your eye at poor Jem. There 
may be a bit of a reckoning against poor Jem for the 
matter of a hare or so if anybody was bound to keep 
their eyes staring open, and niver to wink; but Jem's 
been a-sitting here drinking his can, like the decentest 
man i' the parish, since before you left your house, Mas- 
ter Marner, by your own account. 

Mr. Macey. Ay, ay, let's have no accusing o' the inni- 
cent. That isn't the law. There must be folks to swear 
again' a man before he can be ta'en up. Let's have no 
accusing o' the innicent, Master Marner. 

Silas. [Aroused by Mr. Macey' 's words, starts from his chair, 
goes close up to Jem, and looks at him intently] I was 
wrong, — yes, yes — I ought to have thought. There's 
nothing to witness against you, Jem. Only you'd been 
into my house oftener than anybody else, and so you 
came into my head. I don't accuse you — I won't accuse 
anybody — only, [lifting up his hands to his head, and 
turning away with bewildered misery] I try — I try to 
think where my guineas can be. 

Mr. Macey. Ay, ay, they're gone where it's hot enough 
to melt 'em, I doubt. 



22 Dramatization [Third Year 

Mb. Dowlas. [Scornfully] Tchuh! [Briskly] How much 
money might there be in the bags, Master Marner. 

Silas. [Seating himself again, with a groan] Two hundred 
and seventy-two pounds, twelve and sixpence, last night 
when I counted it. 

Mb. Dowlas. [With m importance] Pooh! 

why. they'd be d rry. Some I lamp's 

i :i in. that's all: and what I vote is, as two of the sen- 
siblest o' the company should go with you to Master 
Kench, the <•■ he's ill i' bed, I know that much 

— and get hin us his deppity; for that's 

the law, and I don't think any body'ull take upon him 

to contradick me there. It isn't much of a walk to 
Kcncir ; and then, it it'^ me as is deppity, I'll go hack 
with you, Master Marner, ami examine your premises; 
and if anybod any fault to find with that, I'll 

thank him t<. Stand up and say it out like a man. 

\l Sni !-i.. Let us see how tin- night i-. though. .'■ 
to the dour to I,,,,/; on Why, it rains 

heavy -till. 

Mi;. Dowlas. Well, I'm n<>t the man to be afraid o* the 
rain. Por it'll l<;<>k l>;i«l when Justice Malam bean as 
respectable men like us had a information laid before 
'em and took i 

Ay and ;i- n<» <>n<- hut Mr. Dowlas Beei 
care to go out on such a night, I '11 l:<< t-> bench's with him. 
I> tolas starts l>> lake Ins coat from -/ nail on tin .-/(ill. 

Mi;. M a< by. 1 d n't Bee as how Mr. Dowlas can act a- 
deputy-constable. My father was a man what under- 
stood the law, and I ha' heard him say that no doctor 
could l>e a constable. 

A murmur risi j the ?nen. Marner sits gazing 

at ike fire, as in a dazed condition, during this colloquy. 

Mr. Sxlll. [Laughing] He's only a cow-doctor! 



Third Year] 



Silas Marner 23 



Mr. Macey. A doctor's a doctor, I reckon, though he may 
be only a cow-doctor, for a fly's a fly, though it may be 
a hoss fly, eh, Mr. Dowlas? 

Mr. Dowlas. The law means that a doctor can be a con- 
stable if he likes — he needn't be one if he don't like! 

Mr. Macey. Nonsense ! The law's not likely to be fonder 
of doctors than of other folks. And if doctors don't 
generally like to be constables, how do you come to be 
so eager to be one? 

Mr. Dowlas. I don't want to act the constable, and 
there's no man can say it of me, if he'd tell the truth. 
But if there's to be any jealousy and ending about going 
to Kench's in the rain, let them go as like it — you won't 
get me to go, I can tell you. 
No one makes a move to go. 

Mr. Snell. Come, come, Mr. Dowlas! No more quar- 
reling. We must see to poor Marner at once. 

The curtain falls as the Landlord goes to Marner and 
lays his hand on his shoulder. 

Scene II 

The Dawn of Hope 

Characters : 
Godfrey Cass. Silas Marner. 

Eppie. Dolly Winthrop. 

The stage represents the interior of Marner s cottage, 
meagerly furnished. In one corner, as if partly out of sight, 
the loom is suggested. The spot from which the gold was taken 
is indicated by loose bricks. On one side of the room is a small 
alcove, with a rude couch, partly concealed by hangings in 
keeping with the rest of the furnishings. A kitchen table 
and two or three wooden chairs complete the setting. Silas 



24 Dramatization 



[Third Year 



is discovered seated near ihc hearth with Eppic in Jiis arms, 
crooning a lullaby to soothe the tired child to sleep. The part 
of Eppic in this scene can be taken by a little sister of one of 
the girls or boys of the school, or a doll could be used. A raj) on 
the door is closely followed by the cut ranee of Godfrey ( ass. Silas 
starts to his feet in alarm, still holding the child in his arms. 

Silas. Have you come to take the child from me? No — 
No I can't pari with it. I can't let it p>. [Sitting 

doien a ml clasping the child more closely] It's come to 

me 1 've a right to keep it . 
Godfkky. [Indifferently] You'd better take the child to 

tin' parish today, Maimer. 
Silas, [sharply Who says so? Will they make me take her? 

I/i Wakes the child in his agitation, but soothes her to 
$U > /> again. 

Godfrey. Why you wouldn't like to keep her, Bhould you 

an old bachelor like you? 
Silas. Till anybody shows they've ■ righl to take her 

away from inc. The mother's dead, and I reckon it's 
no father; it'- a lone thing ami I'm a lone thing. 
My money'- gone [glancing toward the hole in the hearth] 
I don't know where and this i> come from I don't 
know where. I know nothing— I'm partly mazed. 

Godfkky. [Approaches Silas and the sleeping child and 
looks down at her] Poor little thing! [Puts his hand in 
his pocket and draws oat a gold piece] Let me - 
something toward finding it clothe-. 

Silas. [Shakes his head and gently pushes away the hand 
with the gold coin] Xo — No — There'- no need of that. 
Mrs. Winthrop — 

The door opens and Dolly Winthrop enters with a large 
bundle. She does not see Godfrey, who has hastily m 
away from Silas at the sound of her entrance. 



Third Year] Silas Mamer 25 

Dolly. [Opening the bundle] You see, Master Marner, 
there's no call to buy no more nor a pair o' shoes. [Sees 
Godfrey and stops suddenly, drops the bundle in her sur- 
prise, scattering the baby-clothes on the floor] O! Mr. 
Cass! [With a curtsy to Godfrey] I thought you 
were alone. 

Godfrey. I was just going. [To Silas] So you want to 
keep the child ! 

Silas nods. Mrs. Winthrop reaches out her arms for 
Eppie, and Silas reluctantly surrenders her. As Silas 
accompanies Godfrey to the door, Dolly Winthrop lays the 
sleeping child on the couch in the alcove. 

Dolly. [Returns, picks up the garments from the floor, and 
shows them one by one to Silas, who handles them 
awkwardly, but almost reverently] You see I've got 
the little petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago. 
She'll soon outgrow them, as my little one did, 
for the child 'ull grow like grass i' May, bless it — 
that it will. [Stealing softly to the couch and looking 
at the child as she speaks] Anybody 'ud think the 
angils in heaven couldn't be prettier. And to think 
of its being covered wi' them dirty rags — and the 
poor mother — froze to death; but there's Them as 
took care of it, and brought it to your door, Master 
Marner. The door was open, and it walked in over 
the snow, like as if it had been a little starved 
robin. [Returns to her seat] Didn't you say the door 
was open? 

Silas. [Meditatively] Yes — yes — the door was open. 
The money's gone I don't know where, [looking sadly 
at the hole in the hearth] and this is come from I don't 
know where. 

His face lights up as he looks in the direction of the 
alcove. 



26 Dramatization [Third Year 

Dolly. Ah, it's like the night and morning — one goes 
and the other comes, and we know nothing how nor 
where. I think -you're in the right on it to keep the little 
'un, Master Marner, s it 's been sent to you, though 

there's folks as thinks different. You'll happen be a 
hit moithered with it while it's so little; hut I'll come, 
and welcome and see to it for yon : 1 \e a bit o' time to 
-pair most days, so, as I say, I'll come and see to the 
child for you, and welcome. 

Sri is. [Hesitatingly Thank you kindly. I'll be glad 
if you'll tell me things. But, [gets up and goes to the 
alcove, stands by the curtains, looks down at the child as 
he talks] I want to do things for it myself, else it may 

get loud o' - hody else, and QOt loud o' mr. I 

<a:i Irani. I can Irani. [Sitting down again] 
Dolly. I Eh, to be sure. I've Been men as are 

wonderful handy wi' children but whal shall you do 
when you're forced t<» -it in your loom? For she'll get 
busier and misohievouser every day she will, bless 
her. And if you've got anything as <au be split, or 
broke, <>r as is tit to cut her angers off, she'll !»<• at it — 
and it is l>nt right you should know. 

[After meditating a moi perplexity] I'll 

tie her to the leg o' the loom. 
Dolly. Well mayhap that'll d<», as it's a little gell, for 
they're easier persuaded to -it i' one place nor the huh. 

I know what the huh are and it' you was to take and 

tie 'em up. they'd make a fighting and a crying as it' you 
was ringing the pigs. — Hut [starting t<> go] I'll bring 
you my little rhair. and some bits <»' red rag and things i'< >r 
her to play wi'. — She'll be waking soon. I'll hurry to 
fetch 'em. [She starts toward the door again, turns, and 
laughs It' she should wake while I 'm gone, you'd never 
get those elothes on right, poor man. 



Third Year] 



Silas Marner 27 



Silas. Perhaps I do need your help now, just a bit. 
[Jealously] But she'll be my little 'un. She'll be 
nobody else's. 

Dolly. [At the door] No, to be sure; you'll have a right 
to her, if you 're a father to her, and bring her up accord- 
ing. [Coming back a few steps and with a glance toward 
the partly open door as if afraid she would be overheard] 
And it's my belief as the poor little creature has never 
been christened. I'll speak to Mr. Macey about it this 
very day. 

Silas. [Troubled] What is it .you mean by "christened?" 
Won't folks be good to her without it? 

Dolly. [Raising her hands in astonishment and falling into 
a chair as if overcome by Silas's ignorance] Dear, dear! 
Master Marner. Had you never no father nor mother 
as taught you to say your prayers, and as there's good 
words and good things to keep us from harm? 

Silas. [In a low voice] Yes, I know a deal about that — 
used to, used to. But your ways are different; my 
country was a good way off. [Firmly] But I want to 
do whatever 's right for the child i' this country, and you 
think 'ull do it good. I '11 act according, if you '11 tell me. 

Dolly. Well then, Master Marner, I'll ask Mr. Macey 
to speak to the parson about it; and you must fix on a 
name to give it when it 's christened. 

Silas. My mother's name was Hephzibah, and my little 
sister was named after her. 

Dolly. Eh, that's a hard name. I partly think it isn't 
a christened name. 

Silas. [Mildly resentful] It 's a Bible name ! 

Dolly. Then I've no call to speak again' it. But it was 
awk'ard calling your little sister by such a hard name 
when you'd got nothing big to say, like — wasn't it, 
Master Marner? 



28 Dramatization [Third Year 

Silas. We called her Eppie. 

Dolly. Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, 
it 'ud be a deal handier. [Gets up and goes to take one 
more look at the eJiild] But dear me! Here I am yet, 
and the poor child will wake up and no one here to dress 
her but an awk'ard man. [Hurries to the door] I'll be 
back in no time. We'll talk about the christening then! 
Silas closes the door, and with his hand still on the door 
knob, looks in the direction of the 8le€ping child, as the cur- 
tain goes down. 

Scene III 

Tin: Pi i.iiu.\ii.\T 
Character-: 

Eppit . 

Silo*. 

Aaron II' inthroj). 

The time is sixteen years later. The stage setting is the 

same as in the pr> eptfor an air of greater 

'prosperity, and feminine touches that suggest the presence of 

.such as flowers in pots, a white table-cover, a work 

basket, etc. Eppie, Silas, and Aaron are discovered as tin 

curtain rises. Aaron stands in the open doorway waiting 
for an opportunity to make his presence known, his 

upon Eppie. who sits with her A wing in her lap, on a loir 
chair close by the large arm chair in which Silos is comfort- 
ably seated, pipe in hand. They are so absorbed in their 
conversation that they do not note the prt loron, until 

he enters without formal greeting into the conversation. 

Eppie. I wish we had a little garden, father, with double 
daisies in it, like Mrs. Winthrop's, only they >ay it 'ud 



Third Year] Silas Marner 29 

take a deal of digging and bringing fresh soil — and you 
couldn't do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn't 
like you to do it, for it 'ud be too hard work for you. 

Silas. Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o' garden: 
these long evenings, I could work at taking in a little bit 
o' the waste, just enough for a root or two o' flowers for 
you; and again, i' the morning, I could have a turn wi' 
the spade before I sat down to the loom. Why didn't 
you tell me before as you wanted a bit o' garden? 

Aaron. [Stepping toward Silas] I can dig it for you, 
Master Marner. 

Silas. [Turning in surprise] Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you 
there? [Eppie greets Aaron with a smile, and he sits down 
on a bench or chair opposite Silas and Eppie] I wasn't 
aware of you; for when Eppie's talking o' things, I see noth- 
ing but what she 's a-saying. Well, if you could help me 
with the digging, we might get her a bit o' garden all 
the sooner. 

Aaron. It '11 be play to me after I 've done my day's work, 
or any odd bits o' time when the work's slack. And 
I'll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass's garden — he'll 
let me, and willing. If you think well and good, I'll 
come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we'll settle 
what land's to be taken in, and I'll get up an hour 
earlier i' the morning, and begin on it. 

Eppie. But not if you don't promise me not to work at 
the hard digging, father, for I shouldn't ha' said any- 
thing about it, [half -bashfully, half -roguishly] only 
Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron 'ud be so good, and — 

Aaron. And you might ha' known it without her telling 
you. And Master Marner knows too, I hope, as I'm 
able and willing to do a turn o' work for him, and he 
won't do me the unkindness to anyways take it out o' 
my hands. 



30 Dramatization 



[Third Year 



Eppie. {Happily] There, now, father, you won't work in 
it till it's all easy, and you and me can mark out the 
beds and make holes and plant the roots. It'll be a 
deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we've got some 
(lower-, lor I always think the flowers can see us and 
know what we're talking about. And I'll have a bit 
of rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they're 
so sweet-smelling; bul there'- do lavender only in the 
atlef oiks' gardens, I think. [Wistfully] 

AABON. That'- no reason why you shouldn't have some, 

for I can bring you slips of anything; I'm forced to cut 
no end of 'em when I'm gardening, and I throw 'em 
away mostly. There'- a big bed o' lavender at the Red 
Bouse; the missus is very fond of it. 
Silas. Well, so as you don't make free for us, or ask for 
anythin i >rth much a1 t he Red 1 1 Mr. 

( )as 'd to n-. and hnilt US lip the new end 

o' the c ii us beds and things, as I couldn't 

abide to be imposin' for garden-stuff or anything 
else. 

Aaron. No, no, there's no imposin'; there'- never a garden 
in all the parish but what there's endless waste in it tor- 
want o' somebody as could use everything up. It's 
what 1 think to myself son* times, as thee- need nobody 
run short o' victuals if the land was made the most on, 
and then- wi reel but what could find it- 

way to a m< uth. It set - - widen- 

ing does, i >ack now. else mother 'nil be 

in trouble n'1 there. 

Eppii:. Bring ber with yon this afternoon, Aaron. I 
shouldn't like to fix about the garden, and her not know 
everything from the first should you, father? [As 
Aaron reaches the door, Eppie lays down hi runs 

to the doer, and takes Aaron's hand] Oh, Aaron, hurry 



Third Year] 



Silas Maimer 31 



back! See if she will not come right away — we must 
begin the garden tomorrow. 

Silas. Ay, bring her if you can, Aaron, she's sure to have a 
word to say as '11 help us to set things on their right end. 

Eppie. [Running to Silas] O daddy! [Clasps and squeezes 
Silas's arm and skips around him; then dancing with 
childlike glee] My little old daddy! I'm so glad. I 
don't think I shall want anything else when we've got 
a little garden; and I knew Aaron would dig it for us 
[roguishly] — I knew that very well. 

Silas. [Smoothing her cheek] You are a deep little puss, 
you are, but you'll make yourself fine and beholden 
to Aaron. 

Eppie. [Laughing] O no, I shan't, he likes it. [Eppie 
glances at the clock and becomes more serious] O daddy! 
I must make the house tidy, for god-mother will be com- 
ing soon — I'll make haste: [rushes about putting things 
in order, then sits down again on a stool at Silas's feet 
with her hands clasped on his knee, her face grave] 
Father, we shall take the furze bush into the garden; 
it'll come into the corner, and just against it I'll put 
snow-drops and crocuses, 'cause Aaron says they won't 
die out, but '11 always get more and more. 

Silas. Ay, child, it wouldn't do to leave out the furze 
bush; and there's nothing prettier to my thinking, when 
it's y allow with flowers. But it's just come into my 
head what we're to do for a fence — mayhap Aaron can 
help us to a thought; but a fence we must have, else the 
donkeys and things 'nil come and trample everything 
down. And fencing's Lard to be got at, by what I can 
make out. 

Eppie. [Clasping her hands gayly after a moment's thought] 
O, I '11 tell you, daddy, there's lots o' loose stones about, 
some of 'em not big, and we might lay 'em atop of one 



32 Dramatization [Third Year 

another, and make a wall. You and me could carry the 
smallest, and Aaron 'ud carry the rest — I know he 
would. I'll ask him. — Why don't they come. 

She runs to the door and looks out, then returns to her 
stool. 
Silas. No, my precious 'un, there isn't enough stones to 
go all round; a. id as for you carrying, why, wi' your little 
anus you couldn't carry a stone no bigger than a turnip. 
You're dillicate made, my dear, that's what Mrs. Win- 

throp says. 
Eppie. [Jumps a /> unit lifts a heavy log lying on the hearth] 
See daddy! I'm stronger than you think! 

She i/ro/is tlic Imi quickly, goes to situs, and sits on one 

arm of his choir. 

Silas. Nay, child, l«-t us have no more lifting. You 
might hurt yourself! [Sighing sadly] You need have 
somebody t«» work for you ami my arm isn't over- 
Btrong. 

EPPIE. [Laying hi r hand <>n Silas's offer a moment's silence] 

Father, if I was t<» he married, ought I to he married 

w ith my mother's ring? 
Silas. [With an almost imperceptible start] Why, Eppie, 

have you been a-thinking on it? 
Eppie, Only this last week, father, since Aaron talked to 

me about it. 
Silas. [Gently] And what did be Bay? 
Eppie. He said he should like to be married, because he 

was a-going in four-and-twenty, and had got a deal of 

gardening work, now Mr. Mutt's given up; and he goes 

twice a-week regular to Mr. Ca->'^, and once to Mr. 

Osgood's, and they're going to take him on at the 

Rectory. 
Silas. [With a sad smile] And who is it as he's wanting to 

marryr 



Third Year] SUdS Mamer 33 

Eppie. [Laughing and patting Silas's cheek] Why, me, 
to be sure, daddy; as if he'd want to marry anybody 
else! 

She gets down from the arm of the chair and again sits at 
Silas's feet with her head on his knee, looking dreamily 
into the distance. 

Silas. And you mean to have him, do you? 

Eppie. Yes, some time, I don't know when. Everybody's 
married some time, Aaron says. But I told him that 
wasn't true; for, I said, look at father — he's never been 
married. [Looking up at Silas] 

Silas. No, child, your father was a lone man till you was 
sent to him. 

Eppie. [Taking Silas's hand lovingly] But you '11 never be 
lone again, father. That was what Aaron said — "I could 
never think o' taking you away from Master Marner, 
Eppie." And I said, "It 'ud be no use if you did, Aaron." 
And he wants us all to live together, so as you needn't 
work a bit, father, only what's for your own pleasure ; and 
he'd be as good as a son to you — that was what he said. 

Silas. And should you like that, Eppie? 

Eppie. I shouldn't mind it, father, and I should like things 
to be so as you needn't work much. But if it wasn't for 
that, I'd sooner things didn't change. I'm very happy: 
I like Aaron to be fond of me, and come and see us often, 
and behave pretty to you — he always does behave pretty 
to you, doesn't he, father? 

Silas. [Emphatically] Yes, child, nobody could behave 
better. He's his mother's lad. [Lays his pipe on the floor 
as if it were useless to pretend to smoke any longer] But, my 
blessed child, you're o'er young to be married. We'll 
ask Mrs. Winthrop — we'll ask Aaron's mother what she 
thinks; if there's a right thing to do, she'll come at it. 
[Laying his hand on her head] But there's this to be 



34 Dramatization 



[Third Year 



thought on, Eppie: things will change, whether we like 
it or no; things won't go on for a long while just as they 
are and no difference. I shall get older and helplesser, 
and I like to think as you'd have somebody else besides 
me — somebody young and strong, as '11 outlast your 
own life, and take care on yon to the end. 

Eppie. [With trembling voice] Then, would you like me to 
be married, father? 

Silas. 1*11 doI be the man to say do, Eppie. But we'll 
ask ymir god-mother. She "11 wish the right thing by yon 
and her son. too. 

Eppie. [Running to the <l<><>r\ There they come! Let us 
go and meet 'em. <>h. the pipe! won't yon have it 
lit again, lather' [Lifting the pipe from the floor] 

Silas. [Rising] Nay, child, ['vedone enough for today. 

I think, mayhap, a little of it does me more good than 

so much at once. 

( urtain 

Scene IV 

Eppib'b Choice 

( Characters: 
Sitae. Godfrey, 
Eppie. Nancy, 

The stage setting remains the same. The time is even- 
ing. Eppie is seated on her stool at Silas's feet, hold- 
ing both his hands as she looks up at him. On the table 
near them, lighted by a candle, is the recovered gold, arranged 
in orderly heaps. 

Silas. [In a subdued voice] At first, I 'd a sort o' feeling 
come across me now and then, as if you might be changed 



Third Year] Silas Marner 35 

into the gold again; for sometimes, turn my head which 
way I would, I seemed to see the gold; and I thought I 
should be glad if I could feel it, and find it was come 
back. But that didn't last long. After a bit, I should 
have thought it was a curse come again, if it had drove 
you from me, for I'd got to feel the need o' your looks 
and your voice and the touch o' your little fingers. 
You didn't know then, Eppie, when you were such a 
little 'un — you didn't know what your old father Silas 
felt for you. 

Eppie. But I know now, father. If it hadn't been for 
you, they'd have taken me to the workhouse, and 
there 'd have been nobody to love me. 

Silas. Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If 
you hadn't been sent to save me, I should ha' gone to 
the grave in my misery. The money was taken away 
from me in time; and you see it's been kept — kept till 
it was wanted for you. It's wonderful — our life is 
wonderful. [Looking meditatively at the gold, and reaching 
out his hand to touch it] It takes no hold of me now, the 
money doesn't. I wonder if it ever could again — I 
doubt it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I might come to 
think I was forsaken again, and lose the feeling that God 
was good to me. 

A knock at the door interrupts the conversation. Eppie 
goes to the door, and admits Godfrey and Nancy. Eppie. 
makes an embarrassed curtsy. Silas rises awkwardly, 
ill at ease in the presence of his "betters." 

Nancy. We're disturbing you very late, my dear. 

Eppie places chairs for Godfrey and Nancy, then stands 
leaning against Silas's chair, as he sits down opposite 
them. 

Godfrey. [Trying to speak calmly] Well, Marner, it's a 
great comfort to me to see you with your money again, 



36 Dramatization [Third Year 

that you've been deprived of so many years. It was 
one of my family did you the wrong — the more grief to 
me — and I feel bound to make up to you for it in every 
way. Whatever I can do for you will be nothing but 
paying a debt, even if I looked no further than the 
robbery. But there are other things I'm beholden — 
shall be beholden to you for, Marner. 
Silas. [With dignity] Sir, I've a deal to thank you for 
a'ready. As for the robbery, I count it no loss to me. 

And if 1 did, you couldn't help it: you aren't answerable 
for it. 

Godfkky. Yoil may look at it that way, Marner, but I 
never can; and I hope you'll let nie act according to my 
own feeling of what'fl just. I know you're easily con- 
tented: you've been a hard-working man all your life. 

Silas. [Meditatively] Yes. sir, yes. I should ha' been bad 
off without my work: it was what I held l>y when every- 
thing else was gone from me. 

GOD] RE1 . All. it was a good trade for you in the country, 

because there's I. ecu a great deal of linen-weaving to be 
done. But you're getting rather pasl such close work, 

Marner: it's time you laid by and had some rest. You 
look a good deal pulled down, though you're not an old 
man, are you? 

Sila^. Fifty-five, as mar as I can say, sir. 

Godfkky. (). why. you may live thirty years longer — 
look at old Macey! And that money on the table, after 
all, is but little. It won't go far either way whether 
it's put out to interest, or you were to live on it as long 
as it would la^t: it wouldn't go far if you'd nobody to 
keej) but yourself, and you've had two to keep for a 
good many years now. 

Silas. Eh, sir, I'm in no fear o'want. We shall do very 
well — Eppie and me 'ull do well enough. There's few 



Third Year] SUdS Mamer 37 

working-folks have got so much laid by as that. I don't 
know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it as a 
deal — almost too much. And as for us, it's little we 
want — 

Eppie. [Interrupting] Only the garden, father. 

Nancy. You love a garden, do you, my dear? We 
should agree in that; I give a deal of time to the garden. 

Godfrey. You've done a good part by Eppie, Marner, 
for sixteen years. It'ud be a great comfort to you to see 
her well provided for, wouldn't it? She looks blooming 
and healthy, but not fit for any hardships; she doesn't 
look like a strapping girl come of working parents. 
You'd like to see her taken care of by those who can 
leave her well off, and make a lady of her; she's more fit 
for it than for a rough life, such as she might come to 
have in a few years' time. 

Silas. [Wonderingly] I don't take your meaning, sir. 

Godfrey. Well, my meaning is this, Marner. Mrs. Cass 
and I, you know, have no children — nobody to be the 
better for our good home and everything else we have — 
more than enough for ourselves. And we should like 
to have somebody in the place of a daughter to us — we 
should like to have Eppie, and treat her in every way as 
our own child. It'ud be a great comfort to you in your 
old age, I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, 
after you've been at the trouble of bringing her up so 
well. And it's right you should have every reward for 
that. And Eppie, I'm sure, will always love you and 
be grateful to you: she'd come and see you very often, 
and we should all be on the look-out to do everything 
toward making you comfortable. 

During this speech Eppie quietly passes her arm 
behind Silas's head, and lets her hand rest against it 
caressingly. 



38 Dramatization [Third Year 

Silas. [Lifts his head with an effort and speaks faintly] 
Eppie, my child, speak. I won't stand in your way. 
Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass. 

Eppie. [Takes her hand from Silas's head, eomes for- 
ward a step, drops a loir curtsy, first to Nancy, tlien to 
Godfrey] Thank you ma'am — thank you, sir. But 
I can't leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than 
him. And I don't want to be a lady thank you all 
the same [Drops another curtsy] I couldn't give up 
the folks I \ c been used to, 

She goes had: to Silas's chair and puts her arms about 
his neck. Silas, with a subdued sob, takes her hand. 
Nancy looks distressed, Godfrey, irritated. 

Godfrey. [Agitated somewhat angrily] But I've a claim 
on you, Eppie the strongest of all claims. It's my 
duty. Marner, to owd Eppie as my child, and provide 
for her. She's my own child: her mother was my wife. 
1'vim natural claim on her thai must stand before every 
other. 

l]l>l>ie starts violently. Silas straightens himself up. 

Silab. [Indignantly] Then, sir, why didn't you say so 
sixteen year ago, and claim her before I'd come to love 
her. i'stead O 'coming to take her from me now, when 
you might as well take the heart <>ut o' my body? God 
gave her to me because you turned your hack upon her, 
and He looks upon her as mine; you've DO right to her! 
When a man turns a blessing from bis door, it falls to 
them as take it in. 

Godfrey. I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I've 
repented of my conduct in that matter. 

Silas. [With inereasing excitement] I'm glad to hear it, 
sir, but repentance doesn't alter what 's been going on for 
sixteen year. Your coming now and saying, "I'm her 
father," doesn't alter the feelings inside us. It's me 



Third Year] SUcLS MameT 39 

she 's been calling her father ever since she could say the 
word. [Rising and confronting Godfrey] 

Godfrey. But I think you might look at the thing more 
reasonably, Marner. [Eppie draws Silas gently back into 
his chair. Godfrey taps the floor nervously with his stick] 
It isn't as if she was to be taken quite away from you, 
so that you'd never see her again. She'll be very near 
you and come to see you very often. She'll feel just 
the same toward you. 

Silas. Just the same? How '11 she feel just the same for 
me as she does now, when we eat o' the same bit, and 
drink o' the same cup, and think o' the same things 
from one day's end to another? Just the same? that's 
idle talk. You 'd cut us i ' two. 

Godfrey. [Rises and walks up and down with impatience] 
I should have thought, Marner, — I should have thought 
your affection for Eppie would make you rejoice in what 
was for her good, even if it did call upon you to give up 
something. You ought to remember your own life's 
uncertain, and she's at an age now when her lot may 
soon be fixed in a way very different from what it would 
be in her father's home; she may marry some low work- 
ing-man, and then, whatever I might do for her, I 
couldn't make her well-off. You're putting yourself 
in the way of her welfare; and though I'm sorrry to 
hurt you after what you've done, and what I've left 
undone, I feel now it's my duty to insist on taking care 
of my own daughter. I want to do my duty. 

Silas. [After a moment's silence, with trembling voice] I'll 
say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to the child. 
I '11 hinder nothing. 

Godfrey. [With more confidence but some embarrassment] 
Eppie, my dear, it '11 always be our wish that you should 
show your love and gratitude to one who 's been a father 



40 Dramatization [Third Year 

to you so many years, and we shall want to help you to 
make him comfortable in every way. But we hope 
you'll come to love us as well; and though I haven't 
been what a father should ha' been to you all these years, 
I wish to do the utmost in my power for you for the rest 
of my life, and provide for you as my only child. And 
you'll have the best of mothers in my win. — that'll be 
a blessing you haven't known Bince you were old enough 
to know it. 
Nancy. My dear, you'll be a treasure to inc. We shall 
want for nothing wlirn we have our daughter. 

Eppie grasps 8ilas*s hand firmly, straightens up with 
great dignity, and speaks coldly. 

EPPIE. Thank you ma'am thank you, sir. for your 

offers they'ie very great, and far above my wish. 
For I should have no delighl i' life any more if I was 
forced to go away from my father ami knew he \\a> 
.sitting at home, a-thinking of me mid feeling lone. 
We've been used to be happy together every day, and 
I can't think o' no happiness without him. Ami he 
he'd nobody i' the world till I was senl to him, and he'd 
have nothing when I was gone. And he's took care of 

me and loved me from the first, and I'll cleave to him as 

long a- he lives, and uobody shall ever come between 

him and me. 

She sits on the arm of Silas's chair and puts her arm 

about his neck. 

SlLAS. Hut you musl make -ure. Eppie, you must make 
sure as you won't ever be sorry, because you've made 
your choice to stay among poor folk-, and with poor 
clothes and things, when you might ha' had everything 
o' the best. 

Eppie. I can never be -orry, father. I shouldn't know 
what to think on or to wish for with fine things about me 



Third Year] Silas Marner 41 

as I haven't been used to. And it 'ud be poor work for 
me to put on things, and ride in a gig, and sit in a place 
at church, as 'ud make them as I'm fond of think me 
unfitting company for 'em. What could / care for then? 
Nancy looks at Godfrey, with a pained, questioning 
glance. Godfrey's eyes are fixed on the floor. He moves 
the end of his stick as if pondering absently. 

Nancy. What you say is natural, my dear child — it's 
natural you should cling to those who've brought you 
up, but there's a duty you owe to your lawful father. 
There's perhaps something to be given up on more sides 
than one. When your father opens his home to you, I 
think it's right you shouldn't turn your back on it. 

Eppie. [Rises and speaks impetuously] I can't feel as 
I've got any father but one. I've always thought of a 
little home where he'd sit i' the corner, and I should 
fend and do everything for him: I can't think o' no 
other home. I wasn't brought up to be a lady, and I 
can't turn my mind to it. I like the working folks, and 
their victuals, and their ways. And — I'm promised to 
marry a working-man, as '11 live with father, and help 
me to take care of him. 

Godfrey. [Looking up at Nancy with a distressed face] 
Let us go. 

He rises and goes to the door abruptly. 

Nancy. [Rising] We won't talk of this any longer now. 
We're your well-wishers, my dear — and yours, too, 
Marner. We shall come and see you again. It's 
getting late now. 

She hurries after her husband. When the door closes, 
Eppie resumes her seat on the stool at Silas's feet. He 
rests his hand lovingly on her head. 
Curtain 



42 Dramatization [Third Year 

TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

PREFATORY NOTE 

Longfellow's Prelude to the Talee of </ Way aide Inn, like Chaucer's 
Prologue to the Canterbury Talee, offers tin- opportunity f«>r a unique 
type for dramatization, as in the case <>f the Prologue, the first Bcene 
here presents a series of stage pictures <>r groupings of characters; but 
unlike the situation in the Prologue, when the curtain rises, the guests 
are all assembled. The Reader stands far forward to one side, and 
while he reads the description of the character, the Landlord, in some 
way, singles out the person who is being described ami makes him the 
center of interest for tin- moment. Hints for staging are contained in 
the first part of the Prelude. Tin- Reader opens with the description of 
the happy group. Be then sketches each character, beginning with 

the Landlord. Only very minor changes in t lie text an- necessary. The 

descriptions are all abridged more or less; the expository and narrative 
hits ar<- turned into stage directions; and an occasional word is changed 
or line invented. 

In tin- second scene, the Landlord, the Musician, ami the I'oet en- 
tertain the guests with tales much condensed, as the occasion requires. 
The various Interludes throughout the Tale* furnish the source for 
the dialogue) but single lines ami groups of lines must sometimes !><• 
invented to make the connection clear between passages which are 

condensed ami to conform to rhythm and rhyme. 

Por the successful impersonation of the Musician it is, of course. 

necessary that the hoy taking the part shall he able to play the violin. 

But in most tugo school- such a hoy can be found. If desired, how- 
ever, another tale < an DC substituted for the parts of the Olaf S<tga here 
used. Additions to the Btories, or cuts, may be made at pleasure. 

/ 

Tiik Squire's (Quests 

( Characters : 

Tlie Landlord. The Spanish Jew. 

The Student. The Theologian. 

The Sicilian. The Poet. 

The Musician. 



Third Year] Tales of a Way side Inn 43 

The scene presents the parlor of a New England inn 
of seventy years ago. The sign of the Red Horse indicates 
the name of the inn. The time is evening. The Landlord' s 
coat-of-arms is conspicuously displayed on the wall. Many 
guests, busy over the teacups, are seated at small tables, on 
each of which is a lighted candle, and various tea things. 
Others stand before the open fireplace, which is piled with 
blazing logs. The Landlord moves about from group to group 
dispensing good cheer and merriment. The Musician, from 
time to time, plays snatches of old airs on his violin. 

Reading 

Around the fireside at their ease 
There sat a group of friends, entranced 
With the delicious melodies ; 
Who from the far-off noisy town 
Had to the wayside inn come down, 
To rest beneath its old oak-trees. 
The fire-light on their faces glanced, 
Their shadows on the wainscot danced, 
And, though of different lands and speech, 
Each had his tale to tell, and each 
Was anxious to be pleased and please. 
And while the sweet musician plays, 
Let me in outline sketch them all, 
Perchance uncouthly as the blaze 
With its uncertain touch portrays 
Their shadowy semblance on the wall. 

And first the Landlord will I trace; 

Grave in his aspect and attire; 

A man of ancient pedigree, 

A Justice of the Peace was he, 

Known in all Sudbury as "The Squire." 



44 Dramatization [Third Year 

Proud was he of his name and race, 
Of Old Sir William and Sir Hugh, 
And in the parlor, full in view, 
His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, 
Upon the wall in colors blazed. 

A youth was there, of quiet ways, 
A Student of old books and days. 
To whom all tongues and lauds were known, 
And yet a lover of bis own; 
"With many a social virtue graced, 
Yet solitude be oft embraced. 
Books weir his pa^ion and delight] 

And in his upper room at home 

Stood many a rare and SUmptUOUS tome. 

In vellum bound, \\ it b gold bedight, 
Great volumes garmented in white, 
Recalling Florence, Pisa, Home. 

A young Sicilian, to«». was there; 

In sight of Etna born and bred. 

Some breath of its volcanic air 

Was glowing in his heart ami brain, 
And being rebellious to his liege, 
After Palermo's fatal S* 

Across the western seas he fled, 

In good King Bomba's happy reign. 

His face was like a summer night, 

All flooded with a dusky light; 

His hands were small; his teeth -hone white; 

(lean shaven was he as a priest, 

Who at the mass on Sunday sings, 

Save that upon his upper lip 

His beard, a good palm's length at least, 



Third Year] Tales of a Way side Inn 45 

Level and pointed at the tip, 
Shot sideways, like a swallow's wings. 
The poets read he o'er and o'er, 
And most of all the Immortal Four. 

A Spanish Jew from Alicant 
With aspect grand and grave was there; 
Vender of silks and fabrics rare, 
And attar of rose from the Levant. 
Like an old Patriarch he appeared, 
Abraham, or Isaac, or at least 
Some later Prophet or High- Priest; 
With lustrous eyes, and olive skin, 
And, wildly tossed from cheeks and chin, 
The tumbling cataract of his beard. 
There was a mystery in his looks; 
His eyes seemed gazing far away, 
As if in vision or in trance 
He heard the solemn sackbut play, 
And saw the Jewish maidens dance, 
Just as we read in ancient books. 

A Theologian, from the school 
Of Cambridge on the Charles, was there; 
Skillful alike with tongue and pen, 
He preached to all men everywhere 
The Gospel of the Golden Rule, 
The New Commandment given to men, 
Thinking the deed, and not the creed, 
Would help us in our utmost need. 

A Poet, too, was there, whose verse 
Was tender, musical, and terse; 
The inspiration, the delight, 



46 Dramatization [Third Year 

The gleam, the glory, the swift flight, 
Of thoughts so sudden, that they seem 
The revelations of a dream, 
All these were his; but with them came 
No envy of another's fame. 

Last the Musician, as he stood 
Illumined by that fire of wood; 
Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 
IIi> figure tall and straight and lithe, 
And every feature of hia face 
Revealing his Norwegian race; 
A radiance, streaming from within, 
Around bis eyes and forehead beamed, 

The Angel W itli tin- violin. 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 
The instrument on which he played 
Was in Cremona's workshops made, 
By a great master of the art, 

Perfect in cadi minutest part ; 
And in its hollow chamber, thus 
The maker from whose bands it came 
Had written his unrivalled mime, — 
"Antonius Stradivarius." 
The Reader retiree, 

( iirfnin 
II 
Fireside Tales 

The curtain rises on Hie same scene and characters. 
The Landlord steps forward and speaks to his guests. 
The Landlord. 

Let the Musician now draw forth 

Sweet notes as for a short prelude, 



Third Year] Tales of a Way side Inn 47 

To tune us to the story mood. 
Some snatch of song from out the north 
Some melody, some cadence pure, 
Something by way of overture. 

The Musician plays. The guests are spell-bound. 
There is silence for a moment after the music ceases; then 
loud applause. The guests then crowd around the Land- 
lord as the Poet speaks. 
The Poet. 

Now let us hear the Landlord's tale, 
The story promised us of old, 
Promised but always left untold; 
Excuse is now of no avail. 

The Landlord. [Yielding] Well — 

Paul Revere's Ride 
Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy -five; 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

The Student. 

That famous day and year, mine Host, 
Is celebrated far and near, 
In ballad, story, song, and toast. — 
But tell us more of Paul Revere. 

The Landlord. [Continuing] 

He said to his friend, "If the British march 

By land or sea from the town tonight, 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch j 

Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — 

One, if by land, and two, if by sea; 

And I on the opposite shore will be, 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 

Through every Middlesex village and farm, 

For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 



48 Dramatization [TMrd Year 

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar 
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore. 
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears. 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church 

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 

To the belfry-chamber overheads — 

And suddenly all his thoughts are bent 

On a Bhadowy something far away. 

Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 

A line of black lliat bends and floats 

On tin- rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 

Hooted ami spurred, with a heavy stride 

On the opposite -hore walked Paul Revere. 
He gazed at the landscape tar and near. 

But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 

As it rose above the graves on the hill. 

Lonely and spectral and sombre and stilL 

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the Baddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and L r a/«s. till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns! 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet: 

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, 

The fate of a nation was riding that night; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 

Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 



TMrd Year] Tales of a Way side Inn 49 

So through the night rode Paul Revere; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 

A cry of defiance and not of fear, 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore! 

For, borne on the night- wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 

[As the Landlord ends his tale, he rises and takes down 
from the wall the sword that hung there "dim with rust."] 
Children, this sword was in the fight ! 

All gather around him with interest. 
The Poet. [Taking the sword from the Landlord] 
It is the sword of a good knight 
Whose deeds our annals should record. 

[He turns and addresses the Landlord.] 
Your ancestor, who bore this sword 
As Colonel of the Volunteers, 
Mounted upon his old gray mare, 
Seen here and there and everywhere, 
To me a grander shape appears 
Than old Sir William, or what not, 
Clinking about in foreign lands 
With iron gauntlets on his hands, 
And on his head an iron pot! 

All laugh except the Landlord, as they resume their seats. 
He looks puzzled, is about to speak, but is prevented by the 
Student. 
The Student. [With careless ease] 
Now listen to the tale I bring! 
Of ladies and of cavaliers, 
Of arms, of love, of courtesies, 



50 Dramatization [Third Year 

Of deeds of high emprise, I sing! 
Only a tale of love is mine, 
Blending the human and divine, 
A tale of the Decameron, told 
In Palmieri's garden old. 
The Theologian. [Scornfully] 

These stories of such great renown 
From the much-praised Decameron down 
Through all tin.' rabble of the rests 
Are scandalous chronicles at l>e>t! 
They seem to me a stagnant fen, 
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds, 
Where B white lily, now and then. 
Blooms in the midst «>t' noxious weeds 

And deadly nightshade On its hanks. 

The Student. [Sarcastically] 
For the white lily, many thanks! 
It were not grateful to forget, 

That from these reservoirs and tanks 

Even imperial Shakespeare drew 
Bis Moor of Venice and the Jew, 

And Romeo and .Juliet. 

Thk Theologian. 

Let us not hear the tale yon sing, 
Until we know what others bring. 

We cannot listen now to all. 

The time is short; the hour grows late; 

We'll see what each one can recall. 

But most of us will have to wait 

Another evening by the fire, 

Another supper with the Squire. — 

The Squire shall choose which pleasant rhyme 

Well hear tonight before bed time. 



Third Year] Tales of a Way side Inn 51 

One of the guests rises, and places a chair in a con- 
spicuous position. Then the Student approaches the 

Landlord, and conducts him to the seat of honor as the others 

group themselves around the Landlord's chair. 
The Student. [Looking round at the guests, as he walks 

with the Landlord] 

We 're all agreed, I 'm sure. [To the Landlord] Sit here, 

We wait your pleasure with good cheer. 
The Landlord. [Bowing as he takes his seat] 

I thank you, friends. — Your tales begin: 

Things yet to be, or what has been, — 

A song, a tale, a history, 

Or whatsoever it may be, — 

A melody without a name, 

Or some old legend bright with fame. 

In order name your tales. Will you? — 

What is your story, Spanish Jew? 
The Spanish Jew. 

A story in the Talmud told, 

That book of gems, that book of gold, 

Of wonders many and manifold, 

A tale that often makes me sigh 

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, 

And never wearies nor grows old; 

A story rarely told in vain, 

The tale of Rabbi ben Levi. 
The Landlord. 

And you, Sicilian? 
The Sicilian. 

While you spoke, 

Suddenly in my memory woke 

The thought of one, now gone from us, — 

An old Abate, meek and mild, 

My friend and teacher, when a child, 



52 Dramatization [Third Year 

Who sometimes in those days of old 

The legend of an Angel told, 

Which ran, if I remember, thus — 
The Landlord. [Interrupting] 

Later we'll listen, not tonight. — 

Musician, give your fancy range, 

And we will follow in its Might. 

Tell something marvelous and strange. 
The Musici w. 

There is, my Squire, a wondrous hook 

Of Legends in the <»1<1 Norse tongue, 
Of the (lead kings of Nbrroway, 
Legends that once wett told or sung 

In many a smoky fireside nook 
Of Iceland, in the ancient day. 

By wandering Saga-man or Scald; 

Ilciinskringla is the volume called; 
And he who looks may find therein 

My story. Shall I now begin? 

Tim: LANDLORD. 

Yes, sing your song of olden times, 
With strange and antiquated rhyme-. 

Of the dead IrfngS of Xorroway, 
Of Iceland in the ancient day. 
And soften all the accents crude 
With music of an interlude. 
The Musician. 

King Olaf and Karl Sigvald 

On the gray sea-sands 
King Olaf stands, 
Northward and seaward 
He points with his hands. 

With eddy and whirl 
The sea-tides curl, 






Third Year] Tales of a Wayside Inn 53 

Washing the sandals 
Of Sigvald the Earl. 

The mariners shout, 
The ships swing about, 
The yards are all hoisted, 
The sails flutter out. 

The war-horns are played, 
The anchors are weighed, 
Like moths in the distance 
The sails flit and fade. 

The sea is like lead, 
The harbor lies dead, 
As a corse on the sea-shore, 
Whose spirit has fled! 

[He plays an interlude of an old Norse air — strains from 
Grieg's Norwegian Folk-Songs or Peer Gynt would be suitable. 
The music is weird and wild. Then he continues.} 

On that fatal day, 
The histories say, 
Seventy vessels 
Sailed out of the bay. 

But soon scattered wide 

'er the billows they ride, 
While Sigvald and Olaf 
Sail side by side. 

Cried the Earl: "Follow me! 

1 your pilot will be, 
For I know all the channels 
Where flows the deep sea!" 

So into the strait 
Where his foes lie in wait, 
Gallant King Olaf 
Sails to his fate! 



54 Dramatization [Third Year 

Then the sea-fog veils 
The ships and their sails; 
Queen Sigrid the Haughty, 
Thy vengeance prevails ! 

At the conclusion he plays again. When he stops, the 
guests crowd around him and congratulate Iiim. They resume 
their seats (is the Theologian speaks. 

Tin. Theologian. 

Landlord, I now recall a talc. 

So sad (he hearer well may quail, 

An»l question it' such things can be. 
"Tis from tin- chronicles of Spain, 
Down whose dark pages runs this stain, 
And uaughl can wash them white again, 
So fearful is the I ragedy. 
The Student [Somewhat spitefully]. 
In such a company as this, 

A tale SO t ragic mthi> amiss. 

The Italian tales that you disdain, 

From one of the Immortal Four, 
Would cheer US and delight US more, 

( rive greater pleasure and less pain 
Than your grim tragedies of Spain! 

Tin: POET [Rising and stepping before the Landlord], 

Landlord, the story / shall tell 

Has meaning in it, if not mirth; 

Listen, and hear what once befell 

The merry birds of Killingworth. 
The Landlord. 

Right willingly we'll hear you tell, 

With mingled seriousness and mirth, 

Of what once on a time befell 

The merry birds of Killingworth. — 



Third Year] Tales of a Way side Inn 55 

The last one, though, this tale must be 
Tonight, for now 'tis growing late; 
The others you must save for me. 
Now tell your tale, nor longer wait. 

The Poet. 

The Birds of Killingworth 

It was the season, when through all the land 
The merle and mavis build, and building sing 
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand, 
Whom Saxon Csedmon calls the Blithe-heart King. 

The robin and the blue-bird, piping loud, 
Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; 
The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud 
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be; 
And hungry crows assembled in a crowd, 
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly 
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: 
"Give us, O Lord, this day our daily bread!" 

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth, 

In fabulous days, some hundred years ago; 

And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth, 

Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow, 

That mingled with the universal mirth, 

Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; 

They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words 

To swift destruction the whole race of birds. 

And a town-meeting was convened straightway 
To set a price upon the guilty heads 
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds, 
And corn-fields, and beheld without dismay 
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds. 

Then from his house, a temple painted white, 
With fluted columns, and a roof of red, 
The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight! 
Slowly descending, with majestic tread. 



56 Dramatization [Third Year 

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere, 
The instinct of whose nature was to kill; 
His favorite pastime was to slay the deer 
In Summer on some Adirondac hill. 

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned 
The hill of Science with its vane of brass, 
Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round, 
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass. 

And next the Deacon issued from his door, 
In his voluminous neck-doth, while as snow; 
A suit of sable bombazine he wore; 

His form was ponderous, and his step was slow. 

These came together in the new town-hall, 

With sundry tanners from the region round. 

The Squire presided, dignified and tall. 
His aii- Impressive and his reasoning sound; 

111 fared it with the birds, both great and small; 
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found. 
Hut enemies enough, who every one 

Charged them with all the crimen beneath the sun. 
When they had ended, from his place apart, 

Hose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong 
And. trembling like a steed before the start, 
Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng. 

"Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, 
From his Republic banished without pity 
The Poets; in this little town of yours. 
You put to death, by means of a Committee. 

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, 

The street-musicians of the heavenly city 

The birds, who make sweet music for us all 
In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 

"You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 
Scratched up at random by industrious feet. 



Third Year] Tales of a Way side Inn 57 

"Think, every morning when the sun peeps through 
The dim, leaf -latticed windows of the grove, 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Their old, melodious madrigals of love! 

"You call them thieves and pillagers; but know 
They are the winged wardens of your farms, 
Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe 
And from your harvests keep a hundred harms." 

With this he closed; and through the audience went 
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves; 
The farmers laughed and nodded, and some bent 
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves; 
The birds were doomed; and, as the record shows, 
A bounty offered for the heads of crows. 

And so the dreadful massacre began; 

O 'er fields and orchards, and o 'er woodland crests, 

The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran. 

Dead fell the birds, with bloodstains on their breasts. 

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead; 
The days were like hot coals; the very ground 
Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed 
Myriads of caterpillars, and around 
The cultivated fields and garden beds 
Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found 
No foe to check their march, till they had made 
The land a desert without leaf or shade. 

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came 
Without the light of his majestic look; 
A few lost leaves blushed crimson with their shame 
And drowned themselves despairing in the brook, 
While the wild wind went moaning everywhere, 
Lamenting the dead children of the air! 

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen, 
A sight that never yet by bard was sung, 
A wagon, overarched with evergreen, 
Upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung, 
All full of singing birds, came down the street, 
Filling the air with music wild and sweet. 



58 Dramatization [Third Year 

From all the country round these birds were brought, 
By order of the town, with anxious quest, 
And, loosened from their wicker prisons sought 
In woods and fields the places they loved best, 
Singing loud canticles, which many thought 
Were satires to the authorities addressed, 
While others, listening in green lanes, averred 
Such lovely music never had been heard! 

And everywhere, around, above, below, 
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow. 
And a new heaven ben! oxer a new earth 

Amid tin- sunny farms of killingworth. 

As the Port doses, a deep, sonorous sound is heard, 

Coming from the direction of the Landlord's chair. The 
Landlord's cues haic turn closed sonic time. lie suddenly 
sits a/> Straight and then rises. 

Tin: Landlord. 

I Ve been attentive t<> each word. 

And thank you for the tales we've heard. 
Though >till reluctant t<» retire. 
So pleasant i> it l»y the tire. 

The village dock is striking <me; 

'Tis time my friends to srek mir nest. 

Some evening when your work is done 

We'll gather here and tell the rest. 
All. 

Good night, Good night, Good night. 

The guests shake hands with the Landlord and depart, 
each taking a candle. 

Curtain. 






Third Year] The Purloined Letter 59 



THE PURLOINED LETTER 

Edgar Allan Poe 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The dramatization of The Purloined Letter is a study in character 
interpretation. There is practically no action in the story, and the 
dialogue is worked up with the sole purpose of showing Dupin's keenness 
of wit as contrasted with the rule-of-thumb deductions of the Prefect 
of Police. This gives an excellent chance for fine interpretative work. 
The dramatic adaptation presents the story in two scenes, one a month 
later than the other. Few changes of text are necessary. The dialogue 
remains substantially as given in the original; the long speeches are cut: 
and short speeches are interpolated to help along the conversation. 
Because of the probable obscurity of the allusion in the letter at the end 
of the story, the contents of the letter are simplified to read "Remember 
Vienna!" 

Scene I 

The Account of the Robbery 

Characters : 
M. Auguste Dupin. 
His Friend. 
The Prefect of Police. 

The time is about the year 18^5. The place is Paris. 
The scene represents the small library of M. Dupin, a third 
story back room in a Paris lodging house. Bookcases are 
placed against the walls. At the right stands a writing desk. 
To the rear, in a corner, stands a hat tree. A little to the 
left of the center of the stage is a large library table on which 
is a lighted lamp. Books and papers lie scattered about on 
it. Dupin and his Friend sit by the table comfortably smok- 
ing. As the curtain rises, a knock is heard at the door. 
Dupin rises and goes to answer the knock. 



60 Dramatization [Third Year 

Dupin. [Opening the door and admitting the burly Prefect 
of Police] Why, my friend! A hearty welcome, indeed ! 
We were just speaking of you. Sit down, sit down. 
[Taking his hat and cane and placing them on the hat tree] 

The Prefect. [Sodding to Dupin* s Friend] Let me get 
my breath. That's a climb, n 9 est ce pas? Three nights 
up! [After a pause] I came [frowning] to consult you 
both about some official business. 

Dupix. [As he turns down the lamp] If it is any point requir- 
ing reflection, we shall examine it to better purpose in 
the dark. Have a smoke? [Offering the Prefect a pipe] 

The Prefer r. Thank you. That idea about the light is 

another of your odd DOtioDS. 

Di iM\. Very true. [Puffing away at his pipe] 

Tin: Friend. And what is the difficulty now? Nothing 

more in the assassination way, I hope? 
Tin: Prefect. Oh, no; nothing of that nature. Hie fact 
is. tin- business is very simple indeed, and I make no 
doubt that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves; 

but then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details 

of it because it i> ><> excessively odd. 
Dupin. [Dryly] Simple and odd. 

Tin: Phi ri. < r. Why, yes; and not exactly that, either. 
The fact is, we have all been a good d<-al puzzled because 
the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether. 

Dupix. Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which 
puts you at fault. 

The Prefect. [Laughing heartily] What nonsense you da 
talk! 

Dupin. Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain. 

The Prefect. Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of 
such an idea? 

Dupin. [Continuing in the same vein] A little too self- 
evident. 



Third Year] The Purloined Letter 61 

The Prefect [Profoundly amused] Ha! ha! ha! — ha! 
ha! ha! — ho! ho! ho! Oh, Dupin, you will be the death 
of me yet ! [He is almost convulsed with laughter] 

The Friend. And what, after all, is the matter on hand? 

The Prefect. Why, I will tell you in a few words. But 
before I begin, [looking solemnly first at one and then at 
the other] let me caution you that this is an affair 
demanding the greatest secrecy. 

The Friend. Proceed. [Rising and going over to the desk 
to refill his pipe from a tobacco jar, then resuming his seat] 

Dupin. [Indifferently] Or not. 

The Prefect. Well, then; I have received personal infor- 
mation from a very high quarter that a certain document 
of the last importance has been purloined from the royal 
apartments. The individual who purloined it is known; 
this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is 
known, also, that it still remains in his possession. 

Dupin. How is this known? 

The Prefect. It is clearly inferred from the nature of 
the document, and from the non-appearance of certain 
results which would at once arise from its passing out 
of the robber's possession. 

The Friend. Be a little more explicit. 

The Prefect. [Mysteriously] Well, I may venture so far 
as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power 
in a certain quarter where such power is immensely 
valuable. 

Dupin. Still, I do not quite understand. 

The Prefect. No? Well, the disclosure of the docu- 
ment to a third person, who shall be nameless, would 
bring in question the honor of a personage of most 
exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the 
document an ascendency over the illustrious personage 
whose honor and peace are so jeopardized. 



62 Dramatization [Third Year 

The Friend. But this ascendency would depend upon the 
robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the rob- 
ber. Who would dare — 

The Prefect. [Interrupting] The thief is the Minister 
D'Arcy, who dares all things. The document in ques- 
tion, — a letter, to be frank, — had been received by the 
personage robbed, while alone in the royal boudoir. 
During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the 
entrance of the other exalted personage from whom 
especially it was her wish to conceal it. She was obliged 
to Leave it. open as it was, upon a table, bill the letter 
escaped notice. At this juncture enters the Minister 

D'Arcy. Bis lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, 
recognises the handwriting, observes the confusion of the 
personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After 
some conversation, be takes from his pocket a letter 
somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it, 

pretends to read it, and then places it in close juxta- 
position to the other. Again he converses. At length, 
in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter 

to which he had no claim. [ts rightful owner saw, but 
of COUne dared not call attention to the act, in the 
presence of the third personage, who stood at her elbow. 

The Minister decamped, leaving his own letter upon the 
table. 
Dupin. [To his Fri, ml Here, then, you have precisely 
what you demand to make the ascendency complete, — 

the robber's knowledge of the lo>er's knowledge of the 
robber. 
The Prefect. Yes, and the power thus attained has been 
wielded to a very dangerous extent. The person 
robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every day, of the 
necessity of reclaiming her letter. Driven to despair. 
she has committed the matter to me. 



Third Year] The Purloined Letter 63 

Dupin. Than whom no more sagacious agent could be 
desired, or even imagined. [He settles back in his chair 
and smokes quietly while listening to his Friend and the 
Prefect for a few minutes] 

The Prefect. You natter me. 

The Friend. It is clear that the letter is still in possession 
of the Minister. 

The Prefect. True. And upon this conviction I pro- 
ceeded. My first care was to make thorough search 
of the Minister's Hotel; and here my chief embarrass- 
ment lay in the necessity of searching without his 
knowledge. 

The Friend. But you are quite aufait in these investiga- 
tions. The Parisian police have done this thing often 
before. 

The Prefect. Oh, yes; and for this reason I did not 
despair. The habits of the Minister gave me, too, a 
great advantage. He is frequently absent from home 
all night. His servants are by no means numerous. 
They sleep at a distance from their master's apart- 
ments. I have keys, as you know, with which I can 
open any chamber in Paris. For three months a night 
has not passed, during the greater part of which I have 
not been engaged, personally, in ransacking the Minis- 
ter's apartments. But I have become convinced that 
the thief is a more astute man than myself. 

The Friend. But is it not possible that the letter may be 
elsewhere? 

The Prefect. This is barely possible. For the instant 
availability of the document — its susceptibility of being 
produced at a moment's notice — is a point of nearly 
equal importance with its possession. 

The Friend. Its susceptibility of being produced? 

Dupin. That is to say, of being destroyed. 



64 Dramatization [Third Year 

The Friend. True. The paper is clearly then upon the 
premises. As for its being upon the person of the Min- 
ister, we may consider that as out of the question. 

The Prefect. Entirely. He has been twice waylaid, as 
if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under 
my own inspection. 

Dupix. [Leaning forward and smiling] You might have 
spared yourself this trouble. The Minister is not al- 
together a fool, and. if not, must have anticipated these 
waylayings as a matter of course. 

Tin; Prefect. Not altogether a fool, but then, he's 

a DOet, which I take to be only one remove from 
a fool. 

Duptn. [Laconically] True, although I have beeo guilty 
of certain doggerel myself. [He again settles back and 
listens to the Prefect's story] 

The Friend. [To the Prefect] Suppose you detail the par- 
ticulars of your search. 

THE PrJ i H r, Why, the fact is, we took our time, and we 

.searched everywhere. I took the entire building, room by 

room, devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We 

examined first the furniture. We opened every possible 

drawer; and yoil know that to me BUch a thing BJ a secret 
drawer is impossible. After the cabinets we took the 
chairs. The cushions we probed with line long needles. 

From the tables we removed the tops. 

The Friend. Why -<>:- 

Tin. Prefer r. Sometimes the top of a table is removed 
by the person wishing to conceal an article; then the leg 
i- excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and 
the to}) replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed-posts 
are employed in the same way. 

The Friend. But could not the cavity be detected by 
sounding? 






Third Year] The Purloined Letter 65 

The Prefect. By no means, if, when the article is depos- 
ited, a sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it. 

The Friend. But you could not have taken to pieces all 
articles of furniture in which it would have been pos- 
sible to make a deposit in the manner you mention. 
You did not take apart all the chairs? 

The Prefect. Certainly not; but we did better — we 
examined the rungs of every chair by the aid of a power- 
ful microscope. A single grain of gimlet-dust would 
thus have been obvious. Any disorder in the gluing 
would have sufficed to insure detection. 

The Friend. I presume you looked to the mirrors, between 
the boards and the plates, and you probed the beds and 
the bedclothes, as well as the curtains and carpets? 

The Prefect. Of course; and when we had absolutely 
completed every particle of the furniture in this way, then 
we examined the house itself. We divided its entire 
surface into compartments, which we numbered, so that 
none might be missed; then we scrutinized each indi- 
vidual square inch with the microscope. 

The Friend. You must have had a great deal of trouble. 

The Prefect. We had; but the reward offered is prodigious. 

The Friend. You included the grounds about the house? 

The Prefect. All the grounds are paved with brick. 
They gave us comparatively little trouble. We exam- 
ined the moss between the bricks and found it undis- 
turbed. 

The Friend. You looked among the Minister's papers, 
of course, and into the books of the library? 

The Prefect. Certainly; we opened every package and 
parcel; we not only opened every book, but we turned 
over every leaf in each volume. We also measured the 
thickness of every book-cover and applied the microscope. 

The Friend. You explored the floors beneath the carpets? 



66 Dramatization [Third Year 

The Prefect. Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet 
and examined the boards with the microscope. 

The Friend. And the paper on the walls? 

The Prefect. Yes. 

The Friend. You looked into the cellars? 

The Prefect. We did. 

Tin; Friend, [With decision] Then you have been mak- 
ing a miscalculation, and the letter is not upon the 
premises, as you suppose. 

Tin: Prefect. 1 fear you are right there. [Turning to 
Dupin] And now, Dupin, what would you advise me 
to do? 

l)i pin. [Laconically] T<> make a thorough re-search of 
the premises. 

The Prefect. [Half-rising, and bringing his fist down on 
the table] That is absolutely aeedless. I am not more 
sure that I breathe than I am that ili<' letter is not al 
the Hot.-l. 

Dupin. [Rising, <m<l walking up and down, as he smokes] 
I have no better advice to give you. You have, of course, 
an accurate description of the letter? [Pausing near 
the Prefect] 

Tin: Prefect. Oh, yes. [Taking out his note-book, he 
reads] "Seal, small ami red, with the ducal arms of the 
Serres family; superscription markedly bold and decided." 
I'm sure I am at my wits' ends. [Replacing his note-book 
and rising] Well, thank yon for listening and for your 
advice. 1 must go now. ( rood-night, gentlemen, 

Dupin and his Friend both rise and accompany the 
Prefect to the door. 

The Friend. [Shaking hands with the Prefect] Good-night, 
my friend, don't he discouraged. Better luck to yon! 

Dupin. Good-night. Let us know when yon find the letter. 
( 'urtain 






TMrdYear] The Purloined Letter 67 

Scene II 

The Account of the Discovery 

The scene is the same, a month later. The curtain rises, 
disclosing the three men sitting at the table, smoking. 

The Friend. Well, now, what of the purloined letter? I 
presume you have at last made up your mind that there 
is no such thing as overreaching the Minister? 

The Prefect. Confound him, say I — yes; I made the 
reexamination as you suggested, Dupin, [turning to 
him] but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be. 

Dupin. [Quietly] How much was the reward offered, did 
you say? 

The Prefect. Why, a very great deal — a very liberal 
reward — I don't like to say how much precisely; but 
one thing I will say, that I wouldn't mind giving my 
individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one 
who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is 
becoming of more and more importance every day; and 
the reward has been lately doubled. If it were trebled, 
however, I could do no more than I have done. 

Dupin. [Drawling, between whiffs of his pipe] Why, yes, I 
really — think, you have not exerted yourself — to the 
utmost in this matter. You might — do a little more, I 
think, eh? 

The Prefect. [Rising impatiently] How? — in what way? 
He walks up and down nervously. 

Dupin. [Very deliberately] Why [puff, puff] you might [puff, 
puff] employ counsel in the matter, eh? ' [Puff, puff, puff] 
Do you remember the story they tell of Abernethy? 

The Prefect. [Impatiently] No. Hang Abernethy! 

Dupin. To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once 
upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the design of 



68 Dramatization [Third Year 

sponging upon this Abernethy for a medical opinion. 
Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation 
in a private company, he insinuated his case to the 
physician as that of an imaginary individual. 

"We will suppose," said the miser, "that his symp- 
toms are such and such; now, doctor, what would you 
have directed liim to take?" 

" 'Take!' " said Ahernethy, "why, take udricc, to be 
sure." 

The Prefect. [Sitting down] But, I am perfectly willing to 
take advice, and to pay tur it. I would really give fifty 

thousand francs t«» any one who would aid me in the 
matter. 

Di pin. [Opening a drawer of the table and producing a 
check-book] In thai case, you may as well iill me up 

a clack tor the amount mentioned. When you have 

signed it. I will hand you the letter. 
I'm: Fbieno. [Astounded] What! 

The Prefect jumps out of his seat and stands for a 
moment or tun speechless ami mot ionless, looking (it Dupin 

incredulously. Then, recovering himself somewhat, he 

steps to the tattle. seizes u pen, fills up the eheel: and hands 

it to Dupin, who sits unmovt 

Tin; Pbefi i r. There! 

Dupin takes the eheel:. examines it critically, then goes 
leisurely to the desk at the other side of the room, opens it, 

takes out a letter, and gives it to the I'r- 

Dupin. [Quietly] Here is your Letter. 

The Prefect. [Joyfully grasping the letter, opening it 
with trembling hands, and casting his eye over the con- 
tents] Oh, Oh, Oh! My fortune is made! 

1I> dashes for the door, and bursts out, hatless, without 
saying a word to either Dupin or his Friend. 

The Friend. [Rising, going over to Dupin, and placing 



TMrd Year] The Purloined Letter 69 

his hand on his friend's shoulder] Well, how in the name 
of all that is mysterious, did you get that letter? 

Dupin. [Smiling] Sit down and I'll tell you. The solu- 
tion of this mystery was very simple, I assure you. First, 
I '11 tell you why the Prefect failed. The Parisian police 
are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly 
versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to 
demand. Thus, when the Prefect detailed to us his mode 
of searching, I felt entire confidence in his having made a 
satisfactory investigation — so far as his labors extended. 

The Friend. [Surprised] So far as his labors extended? 

Dupin. Yes. The measures adopted were not only the best 
of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had 
the letter been deposited within the range of their search, 
these fellows would, beyond a question, have found it. 

The Friend. [Laughing] Well, that sounds odd indeed, 
as our friend, the Prefect would say. 

Dupin. [Continuing wholly unruffled] The measures, then, 
were good in their kind, and well executed; their defect lay 
in their being inapplicable to the case, and to the man. 
He pauses and takes two or three whiffs of his pipe. 

The Friend. [Eagerly] Go on, please. This is interesting. 

Dupin. The Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently 
because they consider only their own ideas of ingenuity. 
They are right in this much — that their own ingenuity is 
a faithful representative of that of the mass: but when 
the cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character 
from their own, the felon foils them, of course. They 
have no variation of principle in their investigations; they 
extend or exaggerate their old modes of practice when 
the case demands it, as in the present instance, without 
touching their principles. 

The Friend. Oh, I see. Then all the boring and probing 
and scrutinizing with the microscope, in this case were but 



70 Dramatization [Third Year 

an exaggeration of the application of their usual prin- 
ciples of search? 
Dupix. Just so. Do you not see the Prefect has taken it for 
granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter in some 
out-of-the-way hole or corner? And do you not see, also, 
that such nooks for concealment are adapted only for 
ordinary occasions and would he adopted only by 
ordinary intellects? And the remote source of his 
defe.-it lies in the supposition that the Minister is a fool 
because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are 
poets; this the Prefect feels. Hut he is at fault in 
supposing that all poets are fools. 

Tin; FRIEND. Hut is this really the poet? There are two 

brothers,] know, a ml both have attained reputation in let- 
ters. The Minister, 1 believe, has written learnedly on the 
Differential t 'cdculus. He is a mathematician and no poet. 

Dupin. You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. 
A- poet mill mathematician, he would reason well; as 
mere mathematician he could not have reasoned at all, 
ami thus would have been at the mercy of the Prefect. 

Tim Friend. You surprise me by these opinions, which 
have been contradicted by the voice of the world. The 
mathematical reason ha- long been regarded as the 
reason /"//■ i xceUence. 

Dupin. The mathematicians, I grant you, have done 
their best t<> promulgate the popular error to which you 
allude, and which i- none the less an error for its pro- 
mulgation as truth. That, however, is another story. 

The Friend. You have a quarrel on hand with some of 
the mathematicians of Paris, I see. Hut proceed. 

Dupin. I mean to say, that if the Minister had been no 
more than a mathematician, the Prefect would have 
been under no necessity of giving me this check. And 
now I will tell you how I found the letter. 



Third Year] The Purloined Letter 71 

The Friend. Yes, do. I am all eagerness to learn. 

tie rises, pacing slowly back and forth as he listens to Dupin. 

Dupin. Well, I knew the Minister as both mathematician 
and poet. And I knew him as courtier, too. Such a 
man, I considered, could not fail to be aware of the 
ordinary policial modes of action. He could not have 
failed to anticipate the waylayings to which he was 
subjected. He must have foreseen the secret investi- 
gations of his premises. His frequent absences from 
home at night I regarded only as ruses to afford oppor- 
tunity for thorough search to the police, and thus 
impress them with the conviction that the letter was 
not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the Minister 
would despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. 
I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as a matter of 
course, to simplicity. You will remember, perhaps, how 
desperately the Prefect laughed when I suggested, 
upon our first interview, that it was just possible 
this mystery troubled him so much on account of its 
being so very self-evident. 

The Friend. Yes, I remember his merriment well. I 
really thought he would have fallen into convulsions. 
But go on with your story. 

Dupin. Well, the more I reflected, the more satisfied I 
became, that, to conceal this letter, the Minister had 
resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient 
of not concealing it at all. 

The Friend. [Stopping a moment and then sitting down 
again] What! Why, what do you mean? 

Dupin. I mean just that. And now to my story. — I pre- 
pared myself with a pair of green spectacles and called 
one fine morning, quite by accident, at the Ministerial 
Hotel. I found him at home, yawning, lounging, and 
dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last 



72 Dramatization [Third Year 

extremity of ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really 
energetic human being now alive — but that is only 
when nobody sees him. 

The Friend. Indeed! How strange! 

Dupin. Only a part of the game, my friend. — I com- 
plained to him of my weak eyes, and lamented the 
necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I sur- 
veyed the apartment, while seemingly intent only on the 
conversation of nay host. At Length my eyes fell upon a 
trumpery filigree card-rack of pasteboard, thai hung, 

dangling, by a dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob 
just beneath the middle of the man telpieee. In this 
rack were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. 
This last was much Boiled and crumpled. It was torn 
nearly in two. across I he middle as if a design to tear it 

up entirely a- worthless had been altered. It had a 
large black seal, bearing the D'Arcy cipher very con- 
spicuously and was addressed in a. diminutive female 

hand to the Minister, himself. 

He pauses again. 
Tin: Friend. [Rather impatiently] Well, well, what had that 
to do with the case? The let ter the Prefect described was 

radically different. That had a -mall red Beal with the 
ducal arms of the Serro family; this one you are describ- 
ing had a Large black seal. The superscription <>n the 

purloined letter was bold and decided; on this one it was 
diminutive and in a woman's hand. The one you saw 
was addressed to the Minister; the other one to a certain 

royal personage. 

Dupix. [Smiling condescendingly} That's the very point, 
the radicalncss of the differences, which was ezceSfl 
the dirt; the soiled and torn condition of the paper so 
inconsistent with the true methodical habits of the 
Minister; these things, together with the hyper-ohtrnsive 



Third Year] The Purloined Letter 73 

situation of this document, full in the view of every 
visitor, — these things were strongly corroborative of 
suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect. 
I protracted my visit as long as possible, and while I 
talked with the minister on a topic in which he had a lively 
interest, I committed to memory the external appear- 
ance of the letter and its position in the rack. And as I 
looked, I observed that the edges of the paper presented a 
broken appearance. It was clear to me that the letter had 
been turned as a glove, inside out, re-directed, and re- 
sealed. I bade the Minister good-morning and took my 
departure, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table. 

The Friend. [Astonished] Why did you not seize the 
letter then and there? 

Dupin. For the simple reason that I would so have risked my 
life. The Minister is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. 
Moreover his Hotel is not without attendants devoted to 
his interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest 
the good people of Paris might have heard of me no more. 

The Friend. Well what did you do? 

Dupin. The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when 
we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the 
preceding day. While thus engaged, a loud report, as if 
of a pistol, was heard beneath the windows of the Hotel, 
and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the 
shoutings of a mob. [Suddenly losing his customary calm, 
he rises and gesticulates] The Minister rushed to a case- 
ment, threw it open, and looked out. In the meantime I 
stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my 
pocket, and replaced it by a facsimile (so far as regards 
externals) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings. 

The Friend. Your ingenuity staggers me. But what was 
the noise on the street? I suspect you there. 

Dupin. Good ! [Patting his Friend condescendingly on the 



74 Dramatization [Third Year 

shoulder] I commend you for your improvement in the 
power of inference. The disturbance in the street had 
been occasioned by the frantic behavior of a man with 
a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women and 
children. It proved to have been without ball, and the 
fellow was suffered to go his own way as a lunatic or 
drunkard. When he had gone, the Minister came from the 
window, whither I had followed him immediately upon 
securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him 
farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay. 
The Friend. How cleverly you have outwitted the 

Minister! Hi- political downfall i> sure now, since, 
being unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he 
will proceed with his exactions as if it was, and will 
inevitably commit himself to his political destruction. 

DUPIN. I COIlfess I have no sympathy for him. I will tell 
you now, that I had another motive in probing this 
mystery than that of helping the Prefect. The 
Minister once, in Vienna, did me an evil turn, which I 

told him quite good-humoredly, thai I should remember. 
[Smiling I really should like very well to know the precise 
character of hi^ thoughts, when, being defied by her whom 
the Prefect term- "a certain personage," he is reduced to 
opening the letter which I left U>\- him in the card-rack. 

The Friend. How? DibVyou put anything particular in it? 

Dupin. [Drawling] Why - it did n«»t seem altogether 
right to leave the interior blank that would have been 
insulting. And a> I knew he would feel some curiosity 
in regard to the identity of the person who had out- 
witted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a clew. 
He knows my handwriting. [With a chuckle] Sol just 
wrote in the middle of the blank page the words "Re- 
member Vienna!" 

Curtain 






Third Year] A Spring Fantasy 75 



A SPRING FANTASY 

PREFATORY NOTE 

The idea of Spring is here visualized by a series of tableaux accom- 
panied by descriptive readings, song, and dance, the whole being woven 
into a fantasy. The following poems are read wholly or in part: 
Herrick's To Daffodils and Corinna's Maying; Tennyson's The Brook 
and The May Queen; Longfellow's Spring, The Return of Spring, and 
The Brook; Wordsworth's The Daffodils; Emerson's May-Day; and 
Browning's Song from Pippa Passes. 



Overture — Mendelssohn's Spring Song 

Prologue 

The Reader, dressed to suggest Spring, in light, graceful 
robes, a wreath of green upon her head, steps before the cur- 
tain and reads. 

Where shall we keep the holiday, 
And duly greet the entering May? 
Too strait and low our cottage doors, 
And all unmeet our carpet floors; 
Nor spacious court, nor monarch's hall, 
Suffice to hold the festival. 
Up and away! where haughty woods 
Front the liberated floods: 
We will climb the broad-backed hills, 
Hear the uproar of their joy; 
W 7 e will mark the leaps and gleams 
Of the new-delivered streams, 
And the murmuring rivers of sap 
Mount in the pipes of the trees, 
Giddy with day, to the topmost spire, 



76 Dramatization [Third Year 

Which for a spike of tender green 
Bartered its powdery cap; 
And the colors of joy in the bird, 
And the love in its carol heard, 
Frog and lizard in holiday coats, 
And turtle brave in his golden spots; 
While cheerful cries <>f crag and plain 
Reply to the thunder of river and main. 



Hie million-handed sculptor moulds 

Quainte8l bud and blossom folds. 

The million-handed painter pours 
( )pal hues and purple dye; 
Azaleas flush t be island floors, 

And t lie tint 9 of h<\i\ en reply. 

Wreaths for tin- May! for happy Spring 

Today >liall all her dowry In in. . 

Toe love of kind, t la- joy. the grace, 
Hymen of elemenl and race, 
Knowing well to celebrate 

With song and hue and -tar and state, 
With tender light and youthful cheer, 

The spousals of the new-born year. 

Emerson's May-Day) 

Tableau I 

The Banishment of Winter Days 

The curtain rises, displaying a white drop curtain, sug- 
gesting the snows of winter. It has an <>pertini/ in the < 

so that it may be drawn aside by the pages of Spring at the 
given cue, revealing the spring landscape, which is to be the 
general setting for the rest of the pictures. The floor, which 



Third Year] A Spring Fantasy 77 

has a green covering tightly stretched to admit dancing, should 
be left as free as possible for the larger groups and the dancers. 
Enter from the right, crossing the front of the stage and going 
off to the left, Winter, an old, bent man, dressed in white, 
with white beard, sparkling with frost; he is followed by the 
Winter Days (boys), bent, gnome-like figures, also in white, 
bearing evergreen branches. Closely following them is Spring, 
a youthful, sprightly figure, dressed in green, crowned and gar- 
landed with a profusion of spring flowers of every kind. 
Spring, bearing a basket of flowers on her arm beckons to her 
attendants, each dressed to represent a single spring flower (the 
tulip, the violet, the primrose) . They run in, throwing flowers 
after the retreating Winter Days. When the last attendant of 
Winter has disappeared, at a signal from Spring, two pages 
(small boys dressed in green) draw aside the drop curtain, 
and Spring and her attendants march to the rear, the pages 
falling in with the procession at the end. Throughout this 
moving picture, the pianist or orchestra continues playing the 
Spring Song very softly so as not to overpower the Reader s 
voice. The Reader stands far to one side, out of the stage 
picture. 

Reading 

I saw the bud-crowned Spring go forth, 
Stepping daily onward north. 
I saw the Days deformed and low, 
Short and bent by cold and snow; 
The merry Spring threw wreaths on them, 
Flower- wreaths gay with bud and bell; 
Many a flower and many a gem. 
On carpets green, Spring's flowers march 
Below May's well-appointed arch, 

[Cue for pages to draw curtain] 



78 Dramatization t Thi r d Ye * r 

Each star, each god, each grace amain, 
Every joy and virtue speed, 
Marching duly in her train. 
And fainting Nature at her need, 
Is made whole again. 

(Emerson's May-Day) 
The curtain falls as soon as the pages have joined the 

others. 

Tableau II 

The Banishmenl of Sleet, Snow. Wind, and Rain 

As Longfellow's "Spring" is read, the curtain rises on the 
same scene without the </r<>/> curtain. Spring and her com- 
panions ore seated in a merri/ circle well forward to the right. 

Enter Winter. He moves to tin center of the stage and, as he 

discovers Spring, turns and beckons. Immediately his train. 

Sleet, SnOW, Wind, and Rain enter and surround him, as if for 
protection. Then Spring arises and liegins a dance of the 
flowers with her attendants. Winter and his coin jxinions 

gradually shrink away, and, as they disappear. Spring and 

her attendants form a tableau in the e, uter of the stage. 

lit ading 

Gentle Spring ! in sunshine clad, 
Well dosl thou thy power display! 

For Winter inaketh the light heart Bad, 

And thou, — thou makesl the Bad heart gay. 

lie sees thee, and calls to hi- gloomy train. 

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain. 

And they shrink away, and they flee in fear. 

When thy merry step draws near. 
Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky 

Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud; 



Third Year] A Spring Fantasy 79 

But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh; 

Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, 
Who has toiled for naught both late and early, 
Is banished afar by the new-born year, 

When thy merry step draws near. 

Curtain ( Lon g fellow ' s S V™9) 

Tableau III 

The Enthronement of Spring 

The curtain rises, presenting the foregoing picture of Spring 
and her attendants moving about in a dance with "ermined 
Frost, and Wind, and Rain," during the evolutions of which 
these companions of Winter finally disappear from the stage 
as the reading of the following is finished. 

Reading 

Now Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain, 
And clothes him in the embroidery 
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. 
With beast and bird the forest rings, 
Each in his jargon cries or sings; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 

River, and fount, and tinkling brook 

Wear in their dainty livery 

Drops of silver jewelry; 

In new-made suit they merry look; 

And Time throws off his cloak again 

Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 

(Longfellow's The Return of Spring) 
Curtain 



80 Dramatization [Third Year 

Tableau IV 
The Dance of the Daffodils 

The curtain rises on the cue" For oft, when on my couch I 'lie."* 
The Poet reclines on a rustic couch in the rear-center; on either 
side, hand in hand, arranged in a semi-circle are about twenty 
girls, (<>r as many as can be conveniently used in the dance), 
dressed to represent daffodils: green shirts, yellow bodices with 

flawing sleeves, and yellow caps shaped to suggest the flower. 
On the '■He. "And dances with the daffodils,*' a chord is struck 

by the pianist or orchestra, and the Daffodils take the first 
position for a flower dance in keeping with the spirit of the poem. 

Reading 

I wander'd lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I siu a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils, 
Beside the lake beneath tin- trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeae. 

The waves beside them danced; l>nt they 
Out-did the sparkling waves in -!• 

A Poet could not l>nt \>< 

In Buch a jocund company! 

I gazed and gazed but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought; 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant <>r in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodil-. 

Wordsworth's The Daffodils) 
Curtain after dance. 



Third Year] A Spring Fantasy 81 

Tableau V 

The "Flight of the Daffodils 

The curtain rises on the cue "Stay, stay" discovering 
Daffodils in a picturesque group, poised, as if for flight. 
This pose may be one figure in a daffodil dance. The pose 
is assumed several times during the evolutions of the dance 
and is finally followed by actual flight as the curtain falls. 

Reading 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 
As yet the early-rising Sun 

Has not attain' d his noon. 
Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song; 
And, having pray'd together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay, as you, 

We have as short a Spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay 
As you, or any thing. 

We die, 
As your hours do, and dry 

Away 
Like to the Summer's rain; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew 
Ne'er to be found again. 

(Herrick's To Daffodils) 
Curtain 



82 Dramatization [Third Year 

Tableau VI 

The Spirit of the Brook 

As the curtain rises, the Spirit of the Brook is discovered, 
reclining on a bank, dressed in a shimmering robe suggestive 
of the sparkling brook. The song may be sung by the Spirit 
of the Brook, or by a voice behind the scenes, and stanzas other 
than those here given nun/ be chosen at will. 

Song 

I come from haunts of cool and hern, 

I make a Biidden Bally, 
And sparkle <>ut among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In Little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow. 
And many a fairy foreland set 
With Willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter. SS I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and L r ra>\v plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 



Third year] A Spring Fantasy 83 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

(Tennyson's The Brook) 
Curtain 

Tableau VII 

The Spirit of the Brook * 

The curtain rises presenting the Spirit of the Brook in 
another pose. 

Reading 

Laugh of the mountain! — lyre of bird and tree! 
Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! 
The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! 
Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 
Than golden sands that charm each shepherd's gaze. 
How without guile thy bosomj all transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! 
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! 
O, sweet simplicity of days gone by! 

Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount! 

(Longfellow's The Brook) 
Curtain 



84 Dramatization [Third Year 

Tableau VIII 

The May Queen 

The curtain rises on a tableau representing the appeal 
of the daughter to her mother. The mother is seated, a p'xeee 
of sewing or knitting in her lap, in the attitude of listening; 

the <jirl sits at her mother's feet <>n a loir stool, with her clasped 

hands resting on her mother's knee. 'This may be recited by 

the ijirl in the tableau or read by the Header. 

* 

Reading 

You must wake and call me early, call inc early, mother dear; 
To-morrow 'ill be tin- happiesl time of all the glad New-year; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; 
For I 'm to be Queen o 1 the May. mother, I 'm to he Queen 

o* the May. 

I sleep 90 SOUnd all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 
It' you do not call me loud when the day begins to hreak: 

Hut I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands 
gay, 

For I'm to he Queen o 1 the May, mother, I'm to he Queen 

o' the May. 

'ldie night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow- 

gra^>. 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they 

pass; 

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 
And I'm to he Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
o 1 the May. 



Third Year] A Spring Fantasy 85 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and 

play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 

o' the May. [Rising] 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 

dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen 
o' the May. 

(Tennyson's The May Queen) 
Curtain 

Tableau IX 

The Summons to the May Day Celebration 

Reading before the curtain rises 

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn 
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn. 
See how Aurora throws her fair 
Fresh-quilted colors through the air: 
Get up, sweet Slug-a-bed, and see 
The dew bespangling herb and tree. 
Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, 
Above an hour since; yet you not drest, 
Nay! not so much as out of bed? 
When all the birds have matins said, 
And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin, 
Nay, profanation, to keep in, — 
Whenas a thousand virgins on this day, 
Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch-in May. 



86 Dramatization [Third Year 

Can such delights be in the street, 

And open fields, and we not see't? 

Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey 

The proclamation made for May : 
And sin do more, as we have done, by staying; 
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. 

There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day, 
But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
A deal of youth, ere this, is come 

Hack, and with white-t horn laden home. 

Some have despatched their cak< 9 and cream, 
Before that we have Left to dream. 

— Come, lei US go, while we are in our prime; 

And take the harmless folly of the time! 
We shall grow <»ld apace, and die 
Before we know our liberty. 
Our life is short; and our days run 

As fast away &S doe- the siin: — 
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, 

Come, my Corinna! com.-, ht 's go a Maying. 

Derrick's Corinna 9 * Maying) 

The curtain rises on the May Day Celebration, The 

Queen of the May, ahead)/ crovmed, is seated on a throne in 
the rear of the stage at one side, overlooking the May-pole, 
which occupies the eenter of the stage. The dancers, dressed 
as shepherds and shepherdesses, are ranged around the pole 
ready for the dance. At a given signal the music of the 
dance begins. 

Curtain at close of dance. 






Third Year] A Spring Fantasy 87 

Tableau X 

The Triumph of Spring 

The curtain rises on a tableau representing Spring, all 
of the characters being grouped about the figure of Spring. 
During this tableau, the Spring Song is played, a merry 
dance of the flowers takes place, and at a given signal, a tri- 
umphal procession is formed, headed by Spring, and the 
characters march off the stage. This dance and march 
may be made elaborate or simple, as desired. During the 
march, the following is read or sung. 

Song 

The year's at the spring 
And day's at the morn; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn; 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world ! 

(Browning's Song from Pippa Passes) 



FOURTH YEAR 



THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

Oliver Goldsmith 

PREFATORY NOTE 

In order to introduce practically all of the characters in the story 
so as to suggest their individual peculiarities, and to give some clue to 
their place in the plot, several situations from chaps, vii, viii, and ix 
have been combined in this dramatization from The Vicar of Wakefield, 
and the time has been condensed into a single evening at the home of the 
hospitable Vicar. The dialogue is essentially identical with that of 
the text. 

A Pleasant Evening With The Vicar 

Characters : 

Dr. Primrose. Olivia. 

Moses. Sophia. 

Mr. Thornhill. Mrs: Primrose. 

The Chaplain. The Little Maid Servant. 

Mr. Burchell. Neighbors. 

The Visitors from Town 
The stage represents a pleasant English garden, with 
shrubbery on the sides and in the rear. An opening in the 
shrubbery, with a rustic gate, on the left, suggests the path 
to the cottage, which is just out of sight. A green floor-covering 
gives the appearance of a lawn. Seated around a table 
toward the rear of the stage, the Vicar's family and their guests 
are just finishing their simple evening meal. As the curtain 
rises, the laughing faces of the company are turned toward 
Mr. Thornhill who sits at the Vicar's right. 



8 Dramatization [Fourth year 

Olivia. [To Sophia in a?i undertone, but loud enough to be 
heard by Mrs. Primrose, who nods approval, and by Mr. 
Thornhill] Squire Thornhill has an infinite fund of humor. 

Mr. Thornhill. [To the Chaplain, with a significant 
look toward Sophia] Come, tell us honestly, Frank, 
suppose the church, your present mistress, dressed in 
lawn sleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no 
lawn about her, on the other, which would yon be for? 

The Chaplain. For both, to be sure. 

Mb. Thornhill, Right, Prank, for may this glass suffo- 
cate me, but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the 
creation! For what are tithes and tricks but an impo- 
sition, all a confounded imposture? and I can prove it. 

Moses. I wish you would, and 1 think that I should be 
able to answer you. 

Mb. Thornhill, [Winking at the rest of the company] 
Very well, sir, it" yon are for a cool argument upon 
that subject, 1 am ready to accept the challenge. And. 

first, whether are ymi for managing it analogically or 

dialogically? 

Mim.v [Enthusiastically] I am for managing it ration- 
ally. 

Mb. Thornhill, Good again, and. firstly, of the tir>t. 

I hope you'll n«>t deny that whatever i^, is. If you 
don't grant me that. I can go no further. 
MOSES. Why. 1 think I may grant that, and make the 

best of it. 
Mr. Thornhill. I hope, too. you'll grant that a part 

is less than the whole. 
Moses. 1 grant that too; it is but just and reasonable. 

Mr. Thornhill. I hope you'll not deny that the 
two angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones. 

Moses. [Looking around with an air of great importance) 
Nothing can be plainer. 






fourth Year] The Vicar of Wakefield 9 

Mr. Thornhill. [Speaking very rapidly] Very well, the 
premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe that 
the concatenation of self-existences, proceeding in a recip- 
rocal duplicate ratio, naturally produces a problematical 
dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence 
of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable. 

Moses. Hold, hold! I deny that. Do you think that I 
can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines? 

Mr. Thornhill. [Passionately] What! not submit! 
Answer me one plain question: Do you think Aristotle 
right when he says that relatives are related? 

Moses. Undoubtedly. 

Mr. Thornhill. If so, then, answer me directly to 
what I propose: Whether do you judge the analytical 
investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient 
secundum quoad, or quoad minus; and give me your 
reasons — give me your reasons, I say, directly. 

Moses. I protest, I don't rightly comprehend the force 
of your reasoning; but if it be reduced to one simple 
proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer. 

Mr. Thornhill. Oh, sir, I am your most humble 
servant; I find you want me to furnish you with argument 
and intellects, too. No, sir; there I protest you are too 
hard for me. 

All laugh merrily at Moses's discomfiture. Mr. 
Thornhill glances at his watch and rises. This is the 
signal for the whole company to rise from the table. 

Mr. Thornhill. But it is almost time for our dance, 
and I must go to fetch the musicians, and escort hither 
the two young ladies from town who will have the honor 
to be your guests this evening. 

Mr. Thornhill bows, the ladies curtsy. When he has gone, 
Mrs. Primrose goes into the house for a moment; the Little 
Maid Servant enters and clears the table; the girls seat 



10 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

themselves on the grass; Dr. Primrose brings a chair from 
the table for his wife; and Moses sits on a rustic bench. 
Mrs. Primrose returns. 
Mrs. Primrose. [Sitting down by Dr. Primrose and turn- 
ing toward him] And now, my dear, I'll fairly own, thai 
it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our land- 
lord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and you 

now sec that 1 WBS right ;for who knows how this may end? 

Dr. Primbobe. [With a groan] Ay, who knows that, 

indeed? For my part, 1 don't much like it; and I could 

have been better pleased with one thai was poor and 

honest, than this tine gentleman with liis fortune and 

infidelity; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, 

QO freethinker shall ever have a child of mine. 

BuTobes. [Who hat recovered his good nature] Sure, father, 
you are too severe in this; for Heaven will never arraign 
him for whal lie thinks, hut for what he dors. Every 

man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise with- 
out his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion, 
may be involuntary with this gentleman; bo that, 
allowing his sentiments to be wrong, ye1 as he is purely 
passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for his 

errors than the governor of a city without walls for the 

shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy. 

Dr. Primbobe. True, my son, hut if the governor invites 
the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always 
the case with those who embrace error. The vice does 
not lie in assenting to the proofs they see, but in being 
blind to many of the proofs that otter; so that, though 
our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet, 
as we have been wilfully corrupt or very negligent in 
forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice or 
contempt for our folly. 

Mrs. Primrose. My dear, several very prudent men of 



Fourth Year] The Vicar of Wakefield 11 

our acquaintance are freethinkers, and make very good 
husbands; and I know some sensible girls that have had 
skill enough to make converts of their spouses. And 
who knows, my dear, what Olivia may be able to do? 
The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and 
to my knowledge is very well skilled in controversy. 

Dr. Primrose. [Glancing from mother to daughter] Why, 
my dear, what controversy can she have read? It does 
not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands ; 
you certainly overrate her merit. 

Olivia. Indeed, papa, she does not; I have read a great 
deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between 
Thwackum and Square; the controversy between 
Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage; and I am now 
employed in reading the controversy in "Religious 
Courtship." 

Dr. Primrose. [Smiling indulgently] Very well, that's 
a good girl; I find you are perfectly qualified for making 
converts. But, my girl, pray be content for a while to 
help your mother make gooseberry pies! 

At this point Mr. Burchell enters from the right, Dr. 
and Mrs. Primrose rise to welcome their guest. 

Dr. Primrose. We are glad to welcome you at this peaceful 
evening hour of rest and quiet conversation. Be seated. 
[Pointing to the rustic bench where Moses is sitting] 

Mr. Burchell. [Smiling upon Sophia, and seating him- 
self on the grass near by] My thanks! — But may I 
choose this lowlier seat? 

Sophia. [With a sigh, looking off into the distance] I never 
sit thus, but I think of the poetry of Mr. Gay. An 
evening like this is so full of romance. [Turning to 
Mr. Burchell with a shy glance] Do you know the story 
of the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who 
were struck dead in each other's arms? There is some- 



12 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

thing so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a 
hundred times with new rapture. 

Before Mr. Burchell has an opportunity to reply, Moses 
breaks in. 

Moses. [With a learned air] In my opinion, the finest 
strokes in that description are much below those in the 
"Acis and Galatea'' of Ovid. The Roman poet under- 
stands the use of contrast better; and upon that figure, 
artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends. 

Mk. Burchell. It is remarkable, thai both the poets you 
mention have equally contributed to introduce a false 
taste into their respective countries, by Loading all their 
lines with epithet. Men <>f little genius found them 
most easily imitated in their defects; ami English poetry, 

like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at 

present but a combination of luxurianl images, without 
plot or connection a string of epithets that improve the 

sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, 

madam, while I thus reprehend others, yon Ml think it 
just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate; 
and, indeed. I have made this remark only to have an 

opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, 

which, whatever he its other defects. i>, I think, at least 

free from those I have mentioned. [Turning to Mr.s. 

Primrose] Have I your permission to read it? 
Mbs. Primrose. We should be delighted to hear it. 
Mr Burchell. [Reads the following stanzas from the 

Ballad of the Hermit] 

A Ballad 

Turn, ijentle Hermit of the dale, 

And (juide my lonely way 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 

With hospitable ray. 



rourth Year] The Vicar of Wakefield 13 

For here forlorn and lost I tread, 

With fainting steps and slow, 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 

Seem lengthening as I go. 

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
" To tempt the dangerous gloom; 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

"Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still; 
And, though my portion is but scant, 
I give it with good-will. 

" Then turn tonight, and freely share 
Whatever my cell bestows; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 

"No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them: 

" But from the mountain's grassy side 
A guiltless feast I bring; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
And water from the spring. 

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong; 
* Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.'" 



14 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends 

His gentle accents fell: 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

The reader stops, as voices arc heard not far away. They 
all listen. 

Mas. Pbimbose. The Squire is returning with the 

musicians and the ladies from town, for the dance on 

the lawn. 
SOPHIA. You'll read Ufl the rest another time, won't you, 

Mr. Bun-hell? 
Mit. Hi k< BELL. With pleasure, if you desire it. But now 

I must be going. 
Mrs. Primbo8E. Pray stay, and join in the merry-making 

of the evening, Mr. BurchelL 
Tin. Girls. | Together] Yes, do! 
Mr, Bi k« bell. No, I musl forego that pleasure, for I am 

invited to a harvesl supper five miles away, and I must 

hasten. [Makes hurried adicu.r, gUmces nerrously in the 
direction of the voices, irhieh hare gnnm louder, and goes 
out in the opposite direction] 

Mr. Thorn hill enters uith tiro Indies uho ore dressed in 
Conspicuous costumes made in the height of the London 
fashions. Oliria and Sophia stand in the background, 
gazing with awe at their fashionable guests, while Mr. 
Thornhill introduces them to Mrs. J'rimrose. 
Mr. THORNHILL. Lady Blarney, Mrs. Primrose. Mi>> 
Skeggs! 

The ladies curtsy. Mrs. Primrose summons her 
daughters. Oliria and Sophia approach shyly. While 
these introductions are taking place, the musicians, under 
Mr. ThornhilVs directions, are placed in the rear- 
center, allowing room for the dance. 



Fourth Year] The Vicar of Wakefield 15 

Mr. Thornhill. [Again approaching Mrs. Primrose] 
I took the liberty of inviting some of your neighbors to 
complete our company, Mrs. Primrose. They should 
be here by this time. And here they are. 

Enter the Miss Flamboroughs in country finery, con- 
trasting with the city ladies; their two brothers, and another 
young man. They are greeted by the Doctor, Mrs. Prim- 
rose, Moses, and the two daughters. Introductions follow. 

Mrs. Primrose. You are just in time, my dears. 

Mr. Thornhill. [Approaching Olivia, who stands by her 
mother's side, and addressing Mrs. Primrose] With your 
permission, madam, your oldest daughter and I will 
lead the ball. 

Mrs. Primrose nods consent, Olivia shyly gives him her 
hand, and they take their places. 

Sophia. [TVho stands apart from the merry company, looking 
rather downcast — Aside] If Mr. Burchell were only here! 

The Chaplain. [Approaching Sophia] May I be hon- 
ored with Miss Sophia's hand? 

She smilingly assents, and they take their places. In the 
meantime, the rest of the company fall into place, andthe dance 
begins. The Doctor and Mrs. Primrose sit at one side toward 
the front of the stage, happily watching the young people. 

(If the school possesses a lantern operated by electricity, the 
light on this scene may be gradually changed from daylight 
to twilight and then to moonlight. Otherwise, the light upon 
the whole scene may be a subdued, early-evening light. The 
moonlight ball may be made as simple or as elaborate as condi- 
tions demand. The minuet and old English country dances 
will be appropriate. As a closing figure in the dances, the 
characters on the stage may group themselves in a picturesque 
tableau; or may march off the stage, the curtain going down 
as the last couple disappears.) 



16 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES 

Geoffrey Chaucer 

PREFATORY NOTE 

Chaucer's Prologue to the Canterbury Tales falls easily into two 
scenes, The Gathering of Uu Pilgriwu and The Evening at the Tabard. 
The first scene i> w»H adapted to dramatic treatment through the 
tableau, accompanied by reading; the second, to regular dramatisation. 

In scene i, f<>r the sake of brevity, cuts are made in Chaucer's 
description of the Pilgrims, and certain characters arc omitted alto- 
gether. Other cuts may be made and other characters dropped if desired. 

Scene ii necessarily differs somewhat from tin- other dramatisations 
in this liook. Tin- incident chosen is taken from the lasl part of the 
Prologue', wherever possible Chaucer's lines have been used; l»ut the 
conversation, from the nature of the case, is largely new matter. In 

■ word, it is a <lra ma t i/.at i< >n ttfU f ( haueer, rather tlian ( 'haueer drama- 
tized. 

Percy MacKaye's Tin Canterbury Pilgrims contains a modern 
development of the song, ( Hider, lon-.tn M>, occurring in this 

scene, which may be used as s substitute for the authors' invention. 
The music is by Louis Hann; it is published by Boswortfa and 
Company, London, 1804. 

Prologue 
The Reader, dressed as Chaucer, steps before the curtain. 
I\< ading 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote 

The droghte of Man-he hath perced to the roote, 
And bathed every veyne in swich licour, 

Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 
Whan Zephiius eek with his swete breeth 
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 17 

And smale fowles maken melodye, 

That slepen al the night with open ye 

So priketh hem nature in hir corages: 

Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages 

And palmers for to seken straunge strondes 

To feme halwes, couthe in sondry londes; 

And specially, from every shires ende 

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 

The holy blisful martir for to seke, 

That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke. 

Bifel that in that sesoun on a day, 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 
At night were come into that hostelrye 
Wei nyne and twenty in a compaignye, 
Of sondry folk, by aventure y-falle 
In felawshipe, and pilgrims were they alle, 
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 
The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 
That I was of hir felawshipe anon, 
And made forward erly for to ryse, 
To take our wey, ther as I yow devyse. 

But natheles, whyl I have tyme and space, 
Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 
Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun, 
To telle yow al the condicioun 
Of ech of hem, so as it semed nre, 
And whiche they weren, and of what degree; 
And eek in what array that they were inne: 
And at myn hoste wol I first beginne. 



18 



Dramatization 



[Fourth Year 



Scene I 
The Gathering of the Pilgrims 



Characters: 
The Knight, 
The Squire. 
The Yeoman. 

The Sun. 
The Monk. 

The Friar. 

The Merchant. 

The Clerk. 

The S< rgeani of the Law. 

The Franklin. 



The (<><>!:. 
The Shipman. 
TJie Doctor. 
The Wife of Bath. 
The Tar son. 
The Miller. 
The Manciple. 

The R 

5 in limner. 
'The Pardoner. 



'Tin curtain rises. 1 , nis the interior 

of the hall of the Tahanl Inn. Tin Host is diseni , 

busying himself making read// for guests. The Reader 

steps to one side, tint keeps well to the front, SO that In 

not a part of the stage picture. 

''if "J 

A semely man our hoste was withalle 
For t<> ban been a marshal in an halle. 
A large man he was with eyen stepe, 
A fairer burgeys was ther n<><>n in Chepe: 
Held of hi- speche, and wys, and wel y-taught, 
And of manhod him lakkede right naught. 

As the lines descriptive of the characters are read the 
Pili/rims enter from the rear, greet the Host, and then fall 
into this or that group, forming a series of living pictures. 
The Knight, the Squire, and the Yeoman enter together. 
The Squire and the Yeoman talk in pantomime to each 
other as the Host greets the Knight. 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 19 

Reading 

A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man, 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
To riden out, he lovede chivalrye, 
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye. 
At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 
And foughten for our feith at Tramyssene, 
Yet of his port as meeke as is a mayde. 
He never yet no vileinye ne sayde 
In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. 
He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght. 
But for to tellen yow of his array, 
His hors weren goode, but he was nat gay. 
Of fustian he wered a gipoun 
Al bismotered with his habergeoun. 
For he was late y-come from his viage, 
And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 

The Knight presents his son to the Host. 

Reading 

With him ther was his sone, a yong Squyer, 
A lovyer, and a lusty bacheler, 
With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 
And wonderly delyvere and greet of strengthe. 
Embrouded was he, as it were a mede 
Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede, 
Singing he was, or floyting, al the day; 
He was as fresh as is the monthe of May. 
Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and wyde. 
Wei coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. 
So hote he lovede, that by nyghtertale 



20 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

He sleep namore than doth a nyghtingale. 
Curteys he was, lowely, and servisable, 
And carf biforn his fader at the table. 

The Knight presents the Yeoman to the Host. While 
the Host is greeting Iiim, the Knight and his son step to one 
side and talk in pantomime. 

Reading 

A Yemao hadde he, and servaunts oamo 
At that tyme, f<>r him Kiste ryde so; 

And he was clad in cote and hood of giene; 

A sheet of pecok arwea bright and kene 
Ful thriftily in his belt he bar, I trowe, 
And in bis hand he bar a mighty bowe. 
A aot-heed hadde he, with a broun via 
Of wode-craft wel coude he al the usa 
Upon his arm \w bar a nay bracer, 

And by hifl Byde a BWerd and a bokrliT, 

And <ni that other Byde a gay daggere, 
Qarneised wel, and sharp a- poynt of spere; 
A Cristofre on his brest of silver shene. 
An horn he bar, the bawdrik was of grene; 
A forster was he, soothly, a- I gease. 

Tin Yeoman joins tin- Knight and the Squire, as the 
Nun enters. She carries in her arms a small dog, and is 
attended by an elderlj/ Xu?i, who leads another dog by a 
string. The Host is most effusive in his greeting, fetches 
chairs, pats the dogs, etc. 

Reading 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of liir smyling was fnl simple and coy; 
Hir gretteste ooth was but by Seynte Loy; 
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 21 

Ful wel she song the service divyne. 

And sikerly she was of greet disport, 

And ful plesaunt, and amiable of port. 

She was so charitable and so pitous, 

She wolde wepe if that she sawe a mous 

Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 

Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde 

With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel breed. 

But sore wepte she if oon of hem were deed. 

Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was: 

Hir nose trety s ; hir ey en greye as glas ; 

Hir mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed, 

But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed, — 

It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; 

For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 

Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. 

Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar 

A peire of bedes gauded al with grene, 

And theron heng a broche of gold ful shene, 

On which ther was first write a crowned A, 

And after, Amor vincit omnia. 

The Monk comes rollicking in, the bells on his bridle, 
which hangs over his arm, jingling merrily. 

Reading 

A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrye, 
An outridere that lovede venerye; 
A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable: 
And whan he rood men mighte his brydel here 
Gynglen in a whistling wynd as clere, 
And eek as loude as doth the chapel belle, 
Ther as this lord was keper of the celle. 
This ilke monk leet olde thinges pace, 



22 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

And held after the newe world the space. 
He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen 
That seith that hunters been nat holy men; 
Therfore lie was a pricasour aright; 
Grehoundes lie hadde, as swifte as towel in flight; 
Of priking and of hunting for the hare 
Was a) his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
I seigh his sieves purfiled at the hond 
With grys, and thai the fyneste of a loud; 
And for to festne his hood under his chin. 

He hadde of gold wroghl a ful curious pin; 
A Love-knot in the grel ter ende ther was. 
His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas, 

And eek lii> ta<c as he hadde been anoynt. 

He Was a lord ful tat and in good poynt; 

Bis eyes stepe, and rollinge in hi> heed, 
That stemed as a forneys of a leed; 
His bootes Bouple, his bora in great estat. 
Now certeynly he was a fair prelat. 

The Friar then enters and, after greeting the Host, joins 

the Mori/;. 

Reading 

A Frere ther was, a wantown and a merye, 
A lymytour, a ful solempne man. 
Ful swetely herde he confessioun, 
Ami pleasaunt was his absolucioun; 
Hewasanesy man to yeve penaunoe 
Ther as he wiste to have a good pitaunce; 
His tipet was ay t'arsed ful of kny 
Ami pinnes, tor to yeven faire wy 
And certeinly he hadde a mery note; 
Wei coude he singe and pleyen on a rote. 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 23 

And he was lyk a maister or a pope 
Of double worsted was his semi-cope, 
That rounded as a belle, out of the presse. 
Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse, 
To make his English swete upon his tonge; 
And in his harping, whan that he had songe, 
His eyen twinkled in his heed aright, 
As doon the sterres in the frosty night. 
This worthy lymytour was cleped Huberd. 
The Merchant enters. 

Reading 

A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, 
In motteleye, and hye on horse he sat, 
Upon his heed a Flaundrish bever hat; 
His botes clasped faire and fetisly. 
His resons he spak ful solempnely. 
This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette; 
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 
For sothe he was a worthy man withalle, 
But sooth to seyn, I noot how men him calle. 

The Clerk enters slowly, reading a book. He runs into 
the Squire, steadies himself, and then speaks to the Host. 

Reading: 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 
That unto logik hadde longe y-go 
As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake; 
But loked holwe, and thereto sobrely. 
Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy ; 
For him was levere have at his beddes heed 
Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed, 



24 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Of Aristotle and his philosophye, 

Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye. 

But al that he mighte of his freendes hente, 

On bookes and his lerninge he it spente, 

And bisily gan for the soules preye 

Of hem that yaf him wher with to scoleye. 

Of studio took he most cure and most hede. 

Noght o word spak he more than was nede. 

Sowninge in moral vertu was his Bpeche, 

And gladly oroide he lerne, and gladly teche. 

The Sergeant of the Lair comes hustling in. 
Iu ailing 

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
That often hadde been at the Parvys, 
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discreet he was, and of greel reverence: 
He seined swich, his wordes weren bo wyse. 
Justice he was ful often in assyse. 

Xowher SO bisy I man as he ther na> ( 

• And yet he Bemed bisier than he was. 
Hut every Btatui coude he pleyn by rote. 

He rood but hoomly in a nn-dlee cote, 

Girt with a eeynt of silk, with barres smale; 

Of his array telle I no lender tale. 

The Franklin enters in great good htnnor. 

Reading 

A Frankeleyn was in his eompaignye; 
Whit was his herd as is the dayesye; 
Of his complexioun he was sangw yn. 
Wei loved he by the morwe a sope in wyn. 
To liven in debt was ever his wone, 
For he was Epicurus owne sone, 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 25 

That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit 

Was verraily, felicitee parfit. 

An housholdere, and that a greet, was he; 

Seynt Julian he was in his contree. 

His table dormant in his halle alway 

Stood redy covered al the longe day. 

An anlas and a gipser al of silk 

Heng at his girdel, whyt as morne milk. 

A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour; 

Was nowher such a worthy vavasour. 

The Cook comes in, the Shipman closely following. 

Reading 

A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones, 
To boille the chiknes with the mary-bones, 
And poudre-marchant tart, and galyngale. 
Wei coude he knowe a draught e of London ale. 
He coude roste, and sethe, and boille, and frye, 
Maken mortreux, and wel bake a pye. 

Reading 

A Shipman was ther, woning fer by weste: 
For aught I woot, he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood upon a rouncy as he couthe, 
In a gowne of falding to the knee. 
A daggere hanging on a laas hadde he 
Aboute his nekke under his arm adoun. 
The hote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun; 
Hardy he was, and wys to undertake; 
With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake. 
He knew ech cryke in Britaine and in Spayne; 
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 
The Doctor arrives. 



6 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Reading 

With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik, 
In al this world ne was ther noon hym lik. 
The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the rote, 
Anon he vat' the soke man his bote. 
Ful redy hadde be his apothecaries, 
To sonde 1 1! in drogges, and his Letuaries, 
For cell of hem made other for to wynne; 
Hir frendschipe oas oa1 newe to bigynne, 

In sang^ in and in pen he clad was al, 

Lyned with taffata and with sendal; 

And yd lie was bu1 esy of dispence; 
He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 

For gold in phisik IS a cordial. 

Therefore he lovede L r <»M in special. 

The Wife of Bath entere. At she comes in. the Host and 
other Pilgrim* haetentomeetht randcondud hertoaecat. The 

Sijuirc. //. • .<///// the Doctor come crowding round fur 

R ■ iding 

A ( rood-wyf was ther of bisyde Bathe, 
But she was somdeJ deef and thai was scathe. 
In al the parisshe wyf ae was ther noon 
That to the offringe bifore hir sholde L<»on; 
And if therdide, certeyn bo wrooth was she, 
That she was out of alle charitee. 
Her coi erchiefs ful fyne were of ground; 
I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound. 
That on a Sonday were upon hir herd. 
II ir hosen weren of fyn scarlet v<-r<\. 
Ful streite y-teyd, and shoos ful moiste and newe. 
Bold was hir face, and fair, and reed of h< 
She was a worthy womman al her lwe, 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 27 

Housbondes at chirche-dore she hadde fy ve. 
She coude moche of wandring by the weye. 
Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye. 
Upon hir heed she hadde an hat as large 
And brood as is a bokeler or a targe, 
Of remedies of love she knew perchaunce, 
For she coude of that art the olde daunce. 
Next enters the Parson. 

Reading 

A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a povre Persoun of a toun; 
But riche he was of holy thoght and werk; 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk. 
Benygne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversitee ful pacient; 
Ne lafte he nat in siknes to visyte 
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lyte, 
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf . 
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf , 
That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte; 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte. 
He wayted after no pompe and reverence, 
Ne maked him a spyced conscience, 
But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 
He taughte, but first he folwed it himselve. 
The Miller, the Manciple, and theReve next come in together. 

Reading 

The Miller was a stout carl, for the nones, 
Ful big he was of brawn, and eek of bones ; 
That proved wel, for overal ther he cam, 
At wrastling he wolde have alwey the ram. 



28 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre, 
Ther was no dore that he nolde heve of harre, 
Or breke it, at a penning, with his heed. 
His berd as any sowe or fox was reed. 
Y-lyk a forneys was his mouth ful wyde, 
A swerd and bokeler bar he by his syde. 
And stelen corn that comic lie wel, pardee! 
A whyt cote and a blew hood wered he. 
A baggepipe wel eoude he blowe and sowne, 
And when he played he inaad a greet t'rowne. 

Reading 

A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, 
Of which achaiours tnighte take exemple 
Por t<> be wyse in l>yinL r r of vitaille; 
For whether that he payde, <>r took by taille, 
Algate hi' wayted bo in bis achaat, 
That be was ay biforn and in good staat. 
Now Is nat that of God a ful fair grace, 
Thai Bwich a lewed marines \\ i t shal pace 
The wisdom of an beepeof lerned men? 
Of maistres badde he mo than thryes ten. 
In any cas that mighte t'allc or bappe, 

This worthy >tvward sette hir aller cappe. 

Reading 

The Reve was a sclendre colerik man, 
His berd was shave as ny as ever he can. 
His heer was by his eres round y-shorn. 
His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn. 
Ful longe were his legges and ful lene, 
Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. 






Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 29 

Wei coude he kepe a gerner and a bynne; 
Ther was noon auditour coude on him wynne. 
All were adrad of him as of the deeth. 
His woning was ful fair upon an heeth. 
Ful riche he was astored prively, 
His lord wel coude he plesen subtilly, 
To yeve and lene him of his owne good 
And have a thank, and yet a cote, and hood. 
A long surcote of pers upon he hade, 
And by his syde he bar a rusty blade. 
Tukked he was, as is a frere, aboute, 
He was a worthy man withouten doute. 

Enter the Summoner and the Pardoner, arms around 
each other, singing loudly, " Come hider, love, to me." 

Reading 

A Somnour was ther with us in that place, 
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubinnes face. 
He loved to drinken strong wyn, reed as blood. 
Thanne wolde he speke, and crye as he were wood, 
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, 
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
To yonge girles yaf he mochel reed. 
A gerland hadde he set upon his heed, 
As greet as it were for an ale-stake; 
A bokeler hadde he maad him of a cake. 

Reading 

With him ther rood a gentil Pardoner 
Of Rouncivale, his freend and his compeer, 
That streight was comen fro the court of Rome. 
Ful loude he song, "Com hider, love, to me," 



30 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

This somnour bar to him a stif burdoun, 
Was never trompe of half so greet a soun. 
This pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex. 
But smothe it heng, as dooth a strike of flex; 
By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde, 
And therwith he his shuldres overspradde; 
But thinne it lay, by colpons ooo and oon; 
Bui hood, lor jolitee, wered he noon. 
For it was trussed up in his walet. 
1 1 i in thoughte he rood al of the newt- jet; 
Dishevele, save his cappe, he rood al bare. 
Swiche glaringe eyen hadde he as an hare. 
No herd hadde he, ue oever sholde have, 
\a Bmothe it was aa it were late y-shave; 



But of hi- craft, fro Berwyk into Ware, 
Ne was ther swich another pardoner. 

The Pilgrims more about from group to group becoming 
acquainted. 



il< ading 

Now have I told you shortly, in a clauc 
Thestat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the c 
Why that assembled was this compaignye 
In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye, 
That highte the Tabard fast by the belle. 
But now is tymc to yow for to telle 
Bow that we baren us that like night, 
Whan we wore in that hostelrye alight. 

The Reader retires. 

Curtain 






Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 31 

Scene II 
The Evening at the Tabard 

Characters : 
The Host. The Franklin. 

The Knight. Chaucer. 

The Nun. The Doctor. 

The Monk. The Pardoner. 

The Friar. The Summoner. 

The Wife of Bath. The Squire. 

Other Pilgrims as in Scene I. 
The curtain rises on the same company. Chaucer has 
joined the Pilgrims and moves about from group to group. 
All are merrily chatting. 

The Host. [Stepping forward to the Pilgrims] 
Now, Lordinges trewely 
Ye been to me right welcome hertely: 
For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 
I ne saugh this yeer so mery a compaignye 
At ones in this herberwe as is now; 
Fayn wolde I doon yow mirthe, wiste I how. 
The Knight. [Stepping toward the Host] 
We goon to Caunterbury; God us spede, 
The blisful martir quite us our mede! 
Com, ryden with us on our pilgrimage, 
And ye shal doon us mirth, on this viage. 
The Host. 

I wol myselven gladly with yow ryde, 

Right at myn owne cost, and be your gyde. 

But cometh to soper, sitte down everichon. 

Strong wyn and vitaille shal be fet anon. 

[With much ado he seats the Pilgrims — Bowing to Chaucer] 

Daun Chaucer, on this deys now tak your place, 

If that yow wol oure lowely table grace. 



32 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

[Chaucer takes a seat at the head of the board.} 
Sir Knight. — Sit here my lady Prioresse, 
And ye, sir Clerk, lat be your shamfastnesse. 

[The Host seats them as he speaks.} 
Good Wyf of Bathe, sit next the yong Squyer, 
And on your left, another bacheler. 
The Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
Shal place tak withouten more avys. 
Com, Epicurus sone, myn Frankeleyn, 

Sit now, and lat me Serve a BOpe in wyii. 

Here DoctOUT, Maivliant. Shipman, Pilgrims alle, 

Taketh place I preye as it may chance to falle. 
They all teat themst 
Tm: Nun. 

Pardon, monsieur, bill herken, if yow leste, 

By Seynte Ley, prey graunte myn requeste, 

My houndes that I love ful tenderly, 

May cat with us tin- soper sikerly? 

And eke some rosted flesh and waste! breed. 

( ) graunte this or elles am I Ai-r<{[ 
Tin; Boot. [Stops d moment us he is about to pass food 

and drink] 

Your wish is graunted, Madam Eglentyne. — 

And now, my Pilgrims, lat the feast bigynne. 
Tm: Nun. 

Merci, myn Qoste, merci, yow arc most kynde; 

A bettre man is aowher noght to fynde. 

[Pilgrimseat anddrirtl:, the Host passesfrom guest to guest} 
The Host. 

Now, Pilgrims, wol I maken yow disport 

As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort, 

And of a mirthe I am right now bithoght 

To doon you ese, and it shal coste noght. 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 33 

The Monk. 

Now, by my grehoundes swifte as fowel in flight, 

What is this mirthe? We feyne wolde know this night. 
The Squire. 

We feyne wolde know this night! — . . . 
The Host. 

This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, 

But tak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn, 

That ech of yow, to shorte with your weye, 

In this viage shal telle tales tweye, 

To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so, 

And hom-ward he shal tellen othere two. 
All clap hands delightedly. 
The Monk. 

Certes, Sir Hoste, as we goon by the weye, 

We'll shapen us to talen and to pleye. 
The Friar. 

For trewely confort ne mirthe is noon 

To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon. 
The Wife of Bath. 

Sir Hoste, I prey yow, may I yow devyse, 

About myn housbandes fyve al faire and wyse? 

My love charms wold I yeve the young Squyer, 

The lovyer and the lusty bacheler. 
The Host. [Bowing to her] 

With ful glad herte, madame, on this viage. 

But speek up loud, with right a greet corage. — 

With eek a mery chere shal tellen alle 

Of a ventures that whilom han bifalle. 
The Wife of Bath. 

I yeve yow, by myn housbandes that are deed, 

My forward; eek I'll kepe ful wel your reed. 
The Franklin. 

Myn Hoste, and wol yow be our governour 

And of oure tales juge and reportour? 



34 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

The Host. 

A Goddes name, I graunt yow this requeste, 

To herkne to your tales and juge the beste. 

And which of yow that telleth in this case 

Tales of best sentence and most solas, 

Shal have a soper at oure aller cost 

Here in this place, Bitting by this post. 

And who-so wol my jugement withseye 

Shal paye al thai we spenden by the weye. 
Chaucer. [Rising] 

We vouchesauf for to do bo, myn hoste. — 

And now, l.-it see, what hath this soper coste? 

The guests rise from the table and group themselves as 

they irish. 

Tin. Host. 

A-morwe shal yow ban your rekeninges. — 
Now hit ua Bpeke of mirthe and othere thinges. 

CHAU( BR. 

Perchaunce myn Hoste, the gentil Pardoner 
Will sing, or elles his freend and his compeer, 
"Com aider, Love, to me," a mery note, 
And pleyen eek the burdoun on the rote. 

The l><>« r« »u. 

Lat singen, Hoste, "Come aider. Love, to me 9 " 
For now that we have supped we'll esed be. 

The Host. 

Sing, gentil Pardoner and Somnour kynde, 

For bettre singers sholde men aoght fynde. 

They sing to the great glee of the Pilgrims. 

Sung. 
(Ome Hider, Lore, to Me 

Come hider, love, to me. 
Thy sivete eyes lat me see. 



Fourth Year] The Canterbury Tales 35 

Now look up bright, 
My heart's delight, 
All for the love of me. 

Come hider, love, to me ! 
My true love you shot be. 
And now, my tresure, 
We'll dance a mesure, 
Under the greenwood tree. 
Great applause as they finish. 
Chaucer. 

Com, doon us mirthe, also my young Squyer, 
My lovyer and my lusty bacheler; 
Singing yow are or floyting al the day, 
And are as fresshe as is the monthe of May. 
Com, now, a love song yow can wel endyte. 
Sing tenderly and give us greet delyte. 
The Squire sings and plays. 
Song 
Love me little, love me long 
Is the burdoun of my song. — 
My love has cheeks as fair as the May, 
And the sheen upon her hair is bright as day; 
And her eyes are sparkling, too, 
As she glances up at you. 
True love, dear love, 
Love me little, love me long. 

The Host [After the applause which greets the Squire at 
the end of his song has subsided]. 
'Tis late my freends and erly must yow ryse. 
Com, Pilgrims, com withouten more avyse! 
Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale 
On our viage to-morwe, Pilgrims alle. 



36 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Cometh neer, cometh neer, my lady Prioresse, 
I prey, sir Clerk, lat be your shamfastnesse. 
And ye, sir Knight, my maister and my lord, 
Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord. 

[They draw lots] 
Now by my fader soule, it is the Knight 
By aventure or cas; eek is it right! 
The Knight. 

Myn Boste, Byn I shal bigynne the game, 

What, welcome be tin* cut a Goddes name! 

A-mnrwc Bhal vow ln-rkiic that I Beye, 

Wliyl Caunterbury-ward we tak our weye. 
The Hoe 

Com, Miller, lat your l>aL r L r <'|>ipr sowne! 
rV-morwe you shal lead \is out of towne. 
Fall in myn Pilgrims, fall in tweye by tweye, 

Right BO as we shal L r on upon our wcvr. 

A meiy round, we'll inak aboul the IkiIIc 

And than, myn freends, good night, to ech and alle. 

The Pilgrims fall in and march to the sound of the bag- 
pipe, or some other musical instrument, the Miller leading. 

The procession masts off the stage, down in to the audience 
room, around the aisles and up on to the stage again, form- 
ing a tableau to center. 

Curtain 



Fourth Year] Gareth and Lynette 37 

THE IDYLLS OF THE KING 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
PREFATORY NOTE 

Gareth and Lynette is essentially an out-of-door Idyll, and hence it 
presents few difficulties in staging. In the dramatization here given, 
the following changes are made to meet high school conditions: scene ii 
takes place in the courtyard instead of in Arthur's hall; Gareth's first 
two combats are omitted; scene iii opens near the end of the encounter 
with Lancelot; and Gareth's final test is a hand-to-hand combat. 

Because of the large number of descriptive and explanatory passages 
in Tennyson's Idylls, the change to dramatic form necessitates the 
interpolation of many lines and parts of lines. 

Many of the Idylls, though not admitting of dramatization as com- 
plete units, are rich in dramatic incidents which can be worked up singly 
or in groups. The selected episodes from Lancelot and Elaine are typical. 

GARETH AND LYNETTE 

Scene I 

Gareth's Plea 

Characters : 
Gareth. 
Bellicent, Gareth's Mother. 

The stage represents a spring landscape, the general setting 
throughout the play. Gareth is discovered alone. 

Gareth. 

How he went down, that slender-shafted Pine ! 
Down the swift-rushing cataract whirled away, 
As faithless knight, or evil minded king 
Before my lance, if lance were mine to use ! 
Alas ! no lance is mine, nor yet may be, 



38 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Since the good mother holds me still a child ! 
Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 
A worse were better; yet no worse would I. 
Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force 
To weary her ears with one continuous prayer, 
Until she lei me fly discaged to sweep 
In ever-highering eagle-circles up 
To the great Sun of (Hon-, and thence swoop 
Down upon all things base, and dash them dead, 
A knighl <>!' Arthur working out his will — 
I do but dream! How shall 1 e'er prevail! 
Enter Bellicent. 
Bellicent. 

What is it, child? Art weary of thy play? 

Gabeth. 

() Mother, tho* ye count me -till the child. 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child? Thou dost? 

Bellicent. 

Thou art l>ut a wild-goose to questioE it. 

(i \ki.tii. [. [ppealingly] 

Then, mother, an ye love thy self-willed child. 
Let hi 111 no hence! [Somewhat impatiently] — I cannot 
tarry here! 

Belli* i \t. 

Nay, nay. thou art too young, my Gareth, stay! 

G AH Kill. 

Too young!- Why, Gawain, when he hither came, 
Ausk'd me to tilt with him, the proven knight. 

Then I so shook him in the -addle, he said, 
"Thou hast half prevail*! against me," said so — he — 
Bellicent. 

Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? 

Gareth. 

How can ye keep me tethered to you — shame. 
Man am I grown, a man's work must I do! 



Fourth Year] Gareth and Lynette 

Bellicent. 

Wilt walk thro' fire, my son, to gain thy will? 

Gareth. 

Yea, Mother! [Eagerly] May I then — 

Bellicent. 

Ay, go then, an ye must: only one proof, 
Before thou ask the King to make thee knight, 
Of thine obedience and thy love to me, 
Thy mother, — I demand — 

Gareth. [With boyish impatience] 
A hard one, or a hundred, so I go! 
Nay — quick! the proof to prove me to the quick! 

Bellicent. 

Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall, 
And hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks 
Among the scullions and the kitchen-knaves, 
And those that hand the dish across the bar. 
Nor shalt thou tell thy name to any one; 
And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth and a day. 

Gareth. [After a moment's meditation] 
The thrall in person may be free in soul, 
And I shall see the jousts! What matters else! 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will! [Kneeling] 
Curtain 

Scene II 

Gareth's Quest 

Characters : 
Lancelot. Lynette. 

Gareth. Gawain. 

Bedivere. Kay. 

King Arthur. Other Knights. 



40 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

The stage represents the courtyard of Arthur's castle. On 
the platform in the rear is the King's throne, a chair covered with 
red cloth decorated with the golden dragons. This symbol 
sJiould be made a conspicuous feature of the scene, appearing in 
banners, and wherever else it nun/ be appropriately used. 

The King. 

I told thee, Lancelot, of our new knight, 
The la^t tall bod of Lot and Bellicent, 
Content to serve in kitchen vassalage 
A twelve-month and a day. that lie might be 
At Las! a member of our Table Round! 
No mellow master of the meats and drinks 

Is Kay. and yet OUT (iareth served him well. 

In uttermosl obedience to his vow. 

I made him knight in secret, at his will. 

L w BLOT. 

lint wherefore WOUld lie men should wonder at him? 
Tin: King. 

He answered, gayly, when I questioned thus, 

"Have I not earn'd my cake in hakim: of it? 
Let he my name until 1 make my name! 
My deeds will speak: it is hut for a day." 

LaN< BLOT. 

And did he know that I should know the truth? 

The King. 

Yea, Lancelot, in granting him his boon, 

I said, "Our Lancelot, OUT truest man. 

Ami one with me in all. he needs must know." 

Lancelot. 

And hast thou granted him a quest, my Kim:, 
To prove himself of utter hardihood? 
The King. 

I have given him the first quest: he is not proven. 
Look therefore when he calls for this today, 



Fourth Year] Gareth and Lynette 41 

Thou get to horse and follow him from afar, 

Cover the lions on thy shield, and see 

Far as thou mayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain. 
Lancelot. 

I go, my King, but wait my summons near! 

The King seats himself on the throne chair, with pages 

and other attendants to right and left. Gareth enters 

from the right, followed by Kay, the Seneschal, and 

the kitchen knaves. Lynette rushes in from the left, with 

hair disheveled and garments torn, and falls at the King's 

feet. 
Lynette. 

O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, 

See to the foe within! bridge, ford, beset 

By bandits, everyone that owns a tower 

The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there? 

Rest would I not, Sir King, an I were king, 

Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as free 

From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth 

From that best blood it is a sin to spill. 
The King. 

Comfort thyself, fair scorner, I nor mine 

Rest: so my knighthood keep the vows they swore, 

The wastest moorland of our realm shall be 

Safe, damsel, as the center of this hall. 

What is thy name? thy need? 
Lynette. 

My name, Sir King, Lynette; my need, a knight 

To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 

A lady of high lineage, of great lands, 

And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. 
Gawain. 

Nay, that could never be! Fairer, perchance, 

But comelier? — Nay — 



42 



Dramatization 



[Fourth Year 



The King. [To Gawain] 

My Gawain, cease! — The damsel seems'in haste! 

Her need is pressing — let us hear her tale — 
[Turning to Lynette] 

Where dwells thy sister. Lady Lyonors? 
Lynette. 

She lives in Castle Perilous: a river 

Runs in three loops aboui her Living place; 

And o'er it are three passings, and three knights 

Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth 

And of that luiir the migfa t iesl , holds her >tay'd 

In her own castle, and so besieges her 

To break her will, and make her wed with him. 

Tin: King. 

Has no one yet assayed to battle with him? 
Hast thou no brother, child, to righl thy wrongs? 

Li m.iti.. 

May, Liege, we are alone; but this hold knight 
Delays his purport till thou Bend to him 
Thy bravest knight, the great Sir Lancelot. 
Him, () Sir Kin-, he hope- (,, overthrow, 
And wed my sister, Lyonors but -he. 
Save whom she loveth, willeth not to wed — 

Now. therefore, am I coine for Lancelot. 

Gabeth. [To Bedwere, aside] 

Would I had proved myself by knightly deeds 
A worthy knight to undertake this quest ! 
Hut now. alas, this <nie>t i> not for me! 
Yet he did promise mc — 
The King. [Seriously] 

Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush 

All wrongers of the Realm. But say, these four, 

Who he they? What the fashion of the men? 






Fourth Year] Gareth and Lynette 43 

Lynette. 

They be of foolish fashion, Sir King, 

The fashion of that old knight-errantry 

Who ride abroad, and do but what they will. 
The King. [To Bedivere] 

We thought to banish such from out our Realm. 
Bedivere. 

Yea, some, not all. Such things may never be 

While men are men, by earthly passions swayed. 
The King. [To Lynette] 

Thou sayest there be three who guard the way 

Along the winding loops of that fair stream, 

That runs about thy sister's living place? 
Lynette. 

Yea, King, and these same three do call themselves 

Morning-Star, and Noon-Sun, and Evening-Star. 

The fourth, who always rideth arm'd in black, 

A huge man-beast of boundless savagery, 

He names himself the Night and oftener Death. 
Gawain. [Throwing himself at the King's feet] 

O King, thy Lancelot is not here, let me 

But serve this damsel — 
Lynette. 

Nay King — 
Gareth. A boon, Sir King, — this quest — 
Kay. [Scornfully] 

A kitchen knave on such a quest, forsooth ! 
Gareth. 

Yea, scoffing Seneschal, this boon I ask! 

The King doth know I am his kitchen knave, 

But mighty through his meats and drinks am I, 

And I can topple over a hundred such* 
[To King] 

Thy promise, King ! — [Throwing himself at the King's feet] 



44 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

The King. [Motioning him to rise] 

Yea, Gareth — Rough, sudden, — 

And pardonable, worthy to be knight. 
Lynette. [Angrily] 

Fie on thee, King! I asked for thy chief knight, 

And thou hast given me but a kitchen knave! 
Turning, she goes swiftly away. 
The King. [To Gareth] 

An thou would'st undertake this quest, make haste! 

The damsel hath a brave and dauntless heart, 

And spirit high, that matcheth well thine own. 
Gareth. 

God bless the King and all his fellowship! 
All go out except Kay and his knaves. 
Kay. 

My scullion knave! And bound upon a quest 

With horse and arms ! — the King hath past his time ! 

My scullion .knave ! Thralls, to your work again, 

For an your fire be low, ye kindle mine. 
Curtain 

Between scenes ii and Hi, Gareth overthrows, in single 
combat, Morning- Star, Noon- Sun, and Evening-Star, 

Scene III 
The Encounter with Lancelot 

Characters: 
Gareth. 
Lancelot. 
Lynette. 

This scene takes place while the stage is being more elabo- 
rately set for scene iv. A drop-curtain can easily be pro- 



Fourth Year] Gareth and Lynette 45 

vided, with little expense, suggesting a background of woods. 
The horses of the knights are supposed to be at a little distance, 
the closing part of the combat being on foot. The curtain rises 
on the sound of combat: Gareth down, Lancelot, visor lowered, 
shield blank, standing over him; Lynette near by. 

Gareth. [Laughing lightly] Ha! Ha! Ha! 
Lynette. [Scoffingly] 

Dost laugh to be so lightly overthrown? 

I scent again the savor of the meats! 

kitchen knave, thus shamed and overthrown. 
Lancelot. 

Arise, good youth. No shame is this — Nay, damsel! 
Gareth laughs again. 
Lynette. 

Why laugh ye? — that ye blew your boast in vain? 
[Mockingly] 
"There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, 

Hath force to quell me, should he now appear." 
Gareth. [Laughs] 

That boast was but because you smiled on me ! 
Lynette. 

Why laugh ye then? 
Gareth. 

Oh, noble damsel, but that I, the son 

Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, 

And victor of the bridges and the ford, 

And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom 

1 know not, all thro' mere unhappiness. — 
Out, sword; we are thrown! — . . . 

He draws his sword. 
Lynette. [Aside, in astonishment] 

Prince! Knight of Arthur! Son of Bellicent! 



46 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Lancelot. 

Gareth — thro' the mere unhappiness 

Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole, 
As on the day when Arthur knighted him. 

Gareth. 

Lancelot! Thou — Lancelot! — thine the hand 
That threw me? An some chance to mar the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make — which could not chance — 
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear, 
Shamed had I been, and sad — O Lancelot — thou! 

Lynette. [Petulantly[ Lancelot! — 

Why came ye not, when call'd? and wherefore now 

Come ye, not call'd? I gloried in my knave, 

Who being still rebuked, would answer still 

Courteous as any knight — but now, if knight, 

The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd and trick'd, 

And only wondering wherefore play'd upon: 

And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn'd. 

Where should be truth, if not in Arthur's hall, 

In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and fool, 

1 hate thee and for ever. 
Gareth. 

Nay, damsel, these are words of waywardness: 
But yesterday, when that same fight was o'er, 
Thy voice was gentle; thou did'st smile on me 
And called me by thy side, to ride with thee. 
Then hate me not today — 
Lancelot. 

Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth! knight art thou 

To the King's best wish. [Turning to Lynette] O damsel, 

be you wise 
To call him shamed, who is but overthrown? 
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. 



Fourth Year] Gareth and Lynette 47 

Victor from vanquish'd issues at the last, 
An overthrower from being overthrown. — 

[Turning to Gareth] 
And thou art weary; yet not less I felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance of thine. 
Well hast thou done; for all the stream is freed, 
And thou hast wreak'd his justice on his foes, 
And when reviled, hast answer'd graciously, 
And makest merry when thou'rt overthrown. 
Come, damsel, cease thy railing. — Kitchen knave? 
Nay, Prince, and Knight of our good Table Round. 
Lynette. [Still half -petulantly] 

Ay well — ay well — for worse than being fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self — but we 
Must rest. The quest is not yet o'er — a cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks, 
And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 

[To Gareth with a playful glance at Lancelot, not seen 
by Gareth] 

Lead, and we follow, Knave ! Sir Gareth ! Prince ! 
Seek till ye find. We'll tarry by the way; 
Tho' I am weary — yet I would not sleep. 

Gareth goes in search of the cave. 
Lynette. [She stands a moment, watching Gareth as he goes, 
with a smile] 

Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world were one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness! 
O Lancelot, Lancelot, see my kitchen knave! 
Full merry am I to find my goodly knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me pass, 
To bring thee back to do the battle with him. 



48 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Thus, an thou goest, he will fight thee first; 
Who doubts thee victor? so will my knight-knave 
Miss the full flower of this accomplishment. 

Lancelot. 

Fret not! But peradventure he, you name, 
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, 
Change his for mine, and so fulfil his quest. 

Lynette. 

A gracious thought, my lord, and Lancelot-like! 
Courteous in this, Lord Lancelot, as in all! 
But my knight-knave has found ere this the spot 
Where we must eat, and drink, and sleep awhile, 
And reach the black pavilion of our foe. 
Before the stars have faded in the sky. 
Curtain 

Scene IV 

The Victory 

Characters : 
Gareth. Lancelot. 

Lynette. Lyonors. 

Boy. 

Enter Lancelot, Lynette, Gareth, left. To the right is 
pitched the pavilion of Death. Above and a little beyond, 
are seen the balcony, towers, etc. of Lyonors' castle. The 
background for this scene can be painted, or purchased in 
sections. 

Gareth. [Laughing] 

See yonder star, swift- glancing down the sky! 

Lo, damsel, 'tis an omen — the foe falls. 
Lynette. [Taking hold of Lancelot's shield now borne by 

Gareth] 






Fourth Tear] Gareth and Lynette 49 

Yield, yield him this again; 'tis he must fight: 
I curse the tongue that all thro' yesterday 
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now 
To lend thee his own shield: wonders ye have done; 
Miracles ye cannot: here is glory enow 
In having flung the three: I see thee maim'd, 
Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth. 

Gareth. 

And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know! 
You cannot scare me; nor rough face or voice, 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery 
Appal me from the quest — 

Lynette. 

Nay, Prince, my Knight, 
God wot, I never look'd upon the face. 
Some hold that he hath swallow'd infant flesh, 
Monster! — O Prince, I went for Lancelot first, 
The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield! 

Gareth. [Laughing] 

Yea, an he win it in fair fight with me 
Thus — and not else. 

Lancelot. 

Nay, keep the shield, and show this maid once more 
What dauntless spirit dwells in thy young heart. 

Gareth. 

What light is yonder, midst the darkness, there? 

Lynette. 

The light from Death's pavilion, black as night. 
But stay, I — 

Gareth. 

Nay, damsel, stay me not — but let me go. 

Lancelot. 

Remember, Knight, the rules I gave to thee: 
How best to manage lance, and sword, and shield. 



50 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Gareth. [Laughing] 

I shall forget, I fear; I know but one, 
To dash against mine enemy and to win! 

Lynette. 

Heaven help thee, O my knight — Oh, Lancelot! 

See poem for stage ' ' business : ' ' blowing of horn — appearance 
of lights — soundof muffledvoices — Lady Lyonors at window, 
with maids — appearance of Death with opening of pavilion. 

Gareth. [Meeting Death in center — lights very dim] 
Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given, 
But must, to make the terror of thee more, 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod, 
Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers 
As if for pity? — Speak, an if thou canst ! 

[Pauses a moment, but no response comes] 
Art ready, then, thou voiceless fool, to try 
Thy lance 'gainst mine, that hath thy brothers slain? 

Gareth strikes at him; Death falls to the ground, then 
slowly rises. Gareth splits the skull; and the Boy steps forth. 

Boy. 

Knight, slay me not, my brethren bade me do it, 
To make a horror all about the house, 
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. 

Gareth. 

My child, what madness made thee challenge send 
To Arthur's chief est knight, Sir Lancelot? 

Boy. 

Fair Sir, my brothers fierce, they bade me do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend, 
They hoped to slay him somewhere on the stream. 

Lyonors. [Who has descended from the castle, greets Lynette 
and moves toward Gareth] 



Fourth Year] Gareth and Lynette 51 

My thanks, Sir Knight, that bearest a shield I know, 
Tho' thou art not the owner of the shield. 

Lancelot. [Coming from the shadows] 
Our knight has honored it in using it. 

Lyonors. [In astonishment] 
Sir Lancelot! Sir Lancelot: — 

Lynette. 

What said I yesterday in petty rage? 

Far worse than being fooled of others, 'tis 

To fool one's self. How we have fooled ourselves 

In foolish fears — our long-time dreaded foe 

No fearful monster, but this blooming lad ! 

And, sister Lyonors, we owe our joy 

To one I scoffed and scorned as kitchen- knave ! 

Lyonors. [With arm about Lynette] 

Be gracious, Prince, and thus increase our debt. 
Forgive the wayward mood of this dear child! 

Gareth. 

Nay, Lady Lyonors, the debt is mine. 
As for forgiveness, ask this damsel here, 
If still she scents upon the evening breeze 
The savors of my kitchen vassalage! 

Lynette. 

Nay, nay, — forgive, my Prince, remember not — 

Lyonors. 

Let be — and come within my castle, friends: 
King Arthur's greatest knight, and our brave Prince; 
This poor lad, too, — and we will rest till morn, 
In sleep untroubled by the dreaded foe, 
Thanks to my sister and her gallant knight. 
And when the morrow springs from underground, 
We'll celebrate our gratitude in song, 
In feast, and dance, and merry minstrelsy. 
Curtain 



52 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

LANCELOT AND ELAINE 

Scene I 

Lancelot at the Castle of Astolat 

Characters : 
Lancelot. Lord of Astolat. 
Elaine. Sir Lavaine. 

Sir Torre. 

The stage represents the courtyard of the castle of Astolat. 
If scenery is possible, the background may be painted to sug- 
gest the wall and towers of the castle itself. But an out-of- 
door setting, representing a summer landscape, with vine- 
covered walls at the sides and in the rear, will answer the 
purpose. Elaine, the Lord of Astolat, Sir Lavaine, and Sir 
Torre are discovered as the curtain rises, laughing at a jest 
among themselves. Lancelot enters from the opposite side; 
the Lord of Astolat approaches to greet the stranger. 

Lord of Astolat. 

Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name 

Li vest between the lips? for by thy state 

And presence I might guess thee chief of those, 

After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. 

Him have I seen: the rest, his Table Round, 

Known as they are, to me they are unknown. 

Lancelot. 

Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known, 
What I by mere mischance have brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 



Fourth Year] Lancelot and Elaine 53 

At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not. 

Hereafter ye shall know me — and the shield — 

I pray you lend me one, if such you have, 

Blank, or at least with some device not mine. 
Lord of Astolat. 

Your boon, Sir Knight, is in our power to grant: 

Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. 

And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. 
Sir Torre. 

Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it. 
Lord of Astolat. [Laughing] 

Fie ! Fie ! Sir Churl, be gracious to our guest ! 

Is that an answer for a noble knight? 
[To Lancelot] 

Allow him! but Lavaine, my younger here, 

He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, 

Joust for it, and win, and bring it in an hour, 
[Jestingly] 

And set it in this damsel's golden hair, 

To make her thrice as wilful as before. 
Sir Lavaine. 

Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not 

Before this noble knight, — a jest no more! 

I did but play on Torre: he seemed so vext, 

And sullen that he could not go to joust. 
[To Lancelot] 

Sir Knight, believe me, 'twas a jest, no more. 
Lancelot. 

But tell the jest to me! Methinks this spot, 

So far from Court and from its buzzing crowds, 

Might bring sweet laughter back to lips unused 

To mirth that lights the heart, and lips, and eyes! 
Sir Lavaine. 

To one who sits at Arthur's Table Round, 



54 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

'Tis but a simple, foolish little tale. 
Our thoughts have dwelt of late upon this joust; 
And last night as she slept, our sister dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held, 
And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, 
The castle-well, belike; and then I said 
That if I went and if I fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves) 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. 

Lancelot. [Aside] 

No diamond pure could grace a worthier brow! 

Sir Lavaine. 

O father, give me leave, an if ye will, 

To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: 

Win shall I not, but do my best to win. 

Lancelot. 

So ye will grace me with your fellowship, 
O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself, 
Then were I glad of you as guide and friend: 
And you shall win this diamond, if ye may, 
And yield it to this maiden, if ye will. 

Sir Torre. [Impatiently] 

Such fair large diamonds be for stately queens 
And not for simple maids. — She needs them not. 

Lancelot. 

If what is fair be but for what is fair, 

And only queens are to be counted so, 

Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid 

Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, 

Not violating the bond of like to like. 

Sir Torre. 

Such words, that savor of King Arthur's Court, 



Fourth Year] Lancelot and Elaine 55 

As ill become the quiet of our home, 

As costly diamonds our simple maid. 
Lord of Astolat. 

Nay, Torre — let be. — But come, Sir Knight, within. 

When you have been refreshed with meat and drink, 

The best that far-off Astolat affords, 

And entertained with minstrel melody, 

We fain would hear of Arthur's noble deeds, 

And of great Lancelot, his bravest knight; 

And all the glories of his Table Round. 

Such news comes rarely to our quiet hall, 

Remote among the solitary downs. 
Lancelot. 

I '11 gladly tell ye of his glorious wars. 

I never saw his like; there never lived 

A king so great in knightly deeds as he. 
Elaine. [Who has been standing apart from the others, 

aside] Save your great self, fair lord. — 
Sir Lavaine. [Joyously, as they move toward the castle] 

And then tomorrow to the Diamond Joust! 
Curtain 

Scene II 

The Trust 

Characters : 
Lancelot. 
Elaine. 
Sir Lavaine. 

The time is early morning. Another part of the court- 
yard of the castle is suggested by a vine-covered wall and 
gateway, or if the latter is impossible, a drop-curtain can 
be used with the opening at one side representing the gateway. 
Enter from opposite sides, Lancelot and Lavaine. 



56 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Lancelot. 

This shield, my friend, where is it? We must haste. 
Sir Lavaine. 

Within the hall. I '11 fetch it with all speed. 

Exit Lavaine, right, and enter Elaine, left. Lancelot, as 

he turns from Lavaine, sees Elaine and greets her silently, 

as if awed by her presence. 
Elaine. [Hesitatingly] 

Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is 3 

I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 

My favor at this tourney? 
Lancelot. [Troubled] 

Nay, sweet maid, 

Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 

Favor of any lady in the lists. 

Such is my wont, as those, who know me, know. 
Elaine. 

Yea so, — and since 'tis so, in wearing mine 

Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, 

That those who know should know you in this joust. 
Lancelot. [After a moment's thought] 

Good counsel, child. — Then fetch it out to me! 

But stay a moment; tell me what it is. 
Elaine. 

A sleeve it is, my lord, of samite red, 

And broider'd all with pearls. — I'll fetch it straight! 
Elaine goes out. 
Lancelot. [Alone] 

How fair she looked, and shy in asking me 

To wear her favor in the tournament ! 

I did not dream she was so beautiful! 

Alas — I would not do her wrong in wearing it. 

She surely knew — I said 'twas not my wont! 



rourtix Year] Lancelot and Elaine 57 

Elaine returns, and gives Lancelot the sleeve, which he 

binds on his helmet. 
Lancelot. [Smiling] 

How strange it is to see my helm adorned 

By maiden's favor, child! — I never yet 

Have done so much for any maid who lives! 

[Enter Lavaine with Sir Torre's shield. Lancelot rests 

his shield against the wall at the gateway; then returns to 

Elaine, who stands near the center of the stage] 

Do me this grace, fair maid, to guard my shield 

Until I come again to Astolat. 
Elaine. 

A second grace today. I am your squire. 
Sir Lavaine. [Laughing] 

O Lily maid, lest ye be called that name 

In truth, bring back the roses to those cheeks! 
[Playfully pinches her cheeks] ■ 

Then get ye hence to bed. Farewell, sweet maid! 
Lancelot. 

Guard well my shield, fair maid of Astolat! 

The two knights move slowly toward the gateway waving 

farewell, and Elaine follows them. As the curtain goes down 

she stands leaning on the shield, watching the departing 

knights. 



58 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

HENRY ESMOND 

William Makepeace Thackeray 
PREFATORY NOTE 

Two incidents are selected from Henry Esmond for dramatic treat- 
ment, Esmond's Return from the Wars, and The Making of Addison's 
Poem, The Campaign. 

The action of chaps, vii and viii, Book II, covering the first 
selection, occupies several days, but it is here condensed into one 
evening for the sake of simple presentation. Some of the long 
speeches are cut and occasional remarks are introduced to help along 
the dialogue. Otherwise the text is unchanged. 

The second dramatization is based on chap, xi, Book II. It will 
interest pupils who are studying The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers, 
even though they have not read Henry Esmond. The main change 
necessary for this dramatic adaptation is a cutting of the long speeches 
and a readjustment of the dialogue. The events of the chapter occur 
on two different days. Here, in the adaptation, the action is made 
continuous for the sake of simplicity. Certain selections from Addison's 
poem, The Campaign, are introduced. 

Esmond's Return From the Wars 

Characters : 
Lady Castlewood. My Lord Castlewood. 

Mistress Beatrix. Mrs. Pincot, the Housekeeper. 

Henry Esmond. 

The scene shows the dining hall, at Walcote. Mrs. 
Pincot is putting the finishing touches to an elaborately 
spread supper table. As the curtain rises, My Lord Castle- 
wood enters. 

My Lord Castlewood. [Impatiently] They should be here 
now. Hark! there they come. 



Fourth Year] He7iry Esmond 59 

Enter Esmond, and Lady Castlewood leaning on his arm. 
Lady Castlewood. [Removing her wraps and turning to 

Esmond] Welcome home, Harry ! 
My Lord. [Stepping up to Esmond] Welcome, Harry. 

Here we are, all come to say so. Here's old Pincot. 

Hasn't she grown handsome? 
Mrs. Pincot. [Coming forward and making a curtsy to 

Esmond] I say welcome, too, Captain. [To Lord Castle- 
wood] Have done now ! 
Enter Beatrix. 
My Lord. And here comes Mistress Trix, with a new 

riband. I knew she would put on one as soon as she 

heard a captain was coming to supper. 
Beatrix. [Advancing toward Esmond, smiling upon him, 

and holding forward her head as if she would have him kiss 

Iter. But as he is about to do so she draws back] Stop, I 

am grown too big! Welcome, Cousin Harry. [Making 

him a curtsy, sweeping down to the ground, with a most 

gracious bend, looking up at the same time with the 

sweetest smile] 
My Lord. She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white 

shoes. [To Beatrix] Oh, my fine mistress! is this the 

way you set your cap at the Captain? 

Esmond gazes entranced at Beatrix and seems to have 

forgotten all else in his rapt admiration. 
Lady Castlewood. [Going up to Esmond and speaking 

in a low, sweet voice.] N'est-ce-pas? [The only answer 

she gets is a start from Esmond] 
My Lord. Right foot forward, toe turned out, so: now 

drop the curtsy again, and show the red stockings, 

Trix. They've silver clocks, Harry. The Dowager 

sent 'em. 
Beatrix. [Placing her hand over her brother's mouth] 

Hush, you stupid child ! [She goes up to her mother and 



60 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

kisses her. Then she goes up to Esmond and gives him 

both her hands] Oh, Harry, we're so, so glad you're 

come! 
My Lord. There are woodcocks for supper: Huzzay! — 

It was such a hungry sermon. 
Mrs. Pincot. The supper is served, my Lady. 

Esmond conducts Lady Castlewood to a seat; the young 

Lord leads Beatrix; Mrs. Pincot busies herself serving. 
Beatrix. Mamma, why don't you eat? You have no 

appetite and look tired and pale. 
Lady Castlewood. I am an old woman. [Smiling] I 

cannot hope to look as young as you do, my dear Beatrix. 
My Lord. [Turning to his mother] She'll never look as 

good as you do if she lives till she's a hundred. 
Beatrix. [Turning round to Esmond] Do I look very 

wicked, cousin? 
Esmond. I'm like your looking-glass, and that can't 

flatter you. 
Lady Castlewood. [Archly] He means that you are 

always looking at him, my dear. 
Beatrix. Oh, mamma! [Shaking her finger at her mother] 
Lady Castlewood. [Looking fondly at Esmond] And 

Harry is very good to look at. 
Esmond. If 'tis good to see a happy face, you see that. 
Lady Castlewood. [Sighing] Amen. [Becoming rather 

melancholy again] 
My Lord. Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and 

silver, and our black periwig! Mother, I am tired of 

my own hair. When shall I have a peruke? Where 

did you get your steenkirk, Harry? 
Esmond. It's some of my Lady Dowager's lace. She 

gave me this and a number of other fine things. 
My Lord. My Lady Dowager isn't such a bad woman. 
Beatrix. She's not so — so red as she's painted. 



Fourth Year] Henry Esmond 61 

My Lord. I'll tell her you said so; begad, Trix, I will! 

Beatrix. She'll know that you hadn't the wit to say it, 
my Lord. 

My Lord. We won't quarrel the first day Harry's here, 
will we, mother? We'll see if we can get on to the New 
Year without a fight. Have some of this Christmas 
pie. And here comes the tankard; no, it's Pincot with 
the tea. 

Beatrix. Will the Captain choose a dish? [Indicating 
the tea] 

My Lord. I say, Harry, I'll show thee my horses tomor- 
row; and we'll go a bird-netting, and on Monday 
there's a cock-match at Winchester — do you love cock- 
fighting? 

Lady Castlewood. [Without letting Esmond reply] And 
what will you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsman? 

Beatrix. I'll listen to him. I am sure he has a hundred 
things to tell us. And I 'm jealous already of the Spanish 
ladies. Was that a beautiful nun at Cadiz that you 
rescued from the soldiers? My maid, Mrs. Betty, told 
me of it this morning as she combed my hair. She had 
it from your man. And he says you must be in love, for 
you sat on deck all night, and scribbled verses all day in 
your table-book. 

My Lord. [Filling a bumper and saluting his sister] To 
the Marchioness ! 

Esmond. Marchioness! 

Beatrix. [With a toss of the head] Nonsense, my Lord. 

My Lord. The Marchioness of Blandford. Don't you 
know? [Turning to Esmond] Hath not the Dowager 
told you? Blandford has a lock of her hair; the Duchess 
found him on his knees to Mistress Trix, and boxed his 
ears, and said Dr. Hare should whip him. 

Beatrix. I wish Mr. Tusher would whip you too. 



Dramatization 



[Fourth Year 



Lady Castle wood. I hope you will tell none of these silly 
stories elsewhere than at home, Francis. 

My Lord. 'Tis true, on my word. Look at Harry scowl- 
ing, mother, and see how Beatrix blushes as red as the 
silver-clocked stockings. 

Beatrix. [Rising up with the air of a queen, and tossing her 
rustling, floioing draperies about her, as she leaves the 
room] I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their 
wine and their talk. 

Lady Castle wood. [Rising also, and stooping down, she 
pats her son on the shoulder] Do not tell those silly 
stories, child; do not drink much wine, sir; Harry never 
loved to drink wine. 

She looks back at Esmond as she follows Beatrix out of the 
room. — The hvo men rise and take seats at the smalltableatone 
side of the stage, on which are a decanter of wine, and glasses. 

My Lord. Egad! it's true. [He pours wine from the 
decanter, offers Harry a glass, and sips from his own] 
What think you of this Lisbon — real Collares? 'Tis 
better than your heady port; we got it out of one of the 
Spanish ships that came from Vigo last year; my mother 
bought it at Southampton, as the ship was lying there — 
the Rose, Captain Hawkins. 

Esmond. Why, I came home in that ship! 

My Lord. And it brought home a good fellow and good 
wine. Let's have another glass. 

Esmond. No, no, no more for either of us. 

My Lord. Well, and now let me talk — let me tell you 
news of the family. It's now 1703 — I shall come of 
age in 1709. I shall go back to Castlewood; I shall 
build up the house. My property will be pretty well 
restored by then. I shall marry early — Trix will be a 
duchess by that time, most likely : for a cannon-ball may 
knock over his Grace any day, you know. 



Fourth Year] Henry Esmond 63 

Esmond. Beatrix a duchess ! How? 

My Lord. Hush, my dear! Blandford will marry her — or — 
[putting his hand on his sword] you understand the rest. 
Blandford knows which of us two is the best weapon. I 
have tried him, Harry; and begad he knows I am a man 
not to be trifled with. 

Esmond. [Concealing his laughter] But you do not mean 
that you can force my Lord Blandford, the son of the 
first man of this kingdom, to marry your sister at 
sword's point? 

My Lord. I mean to say that we are cousins by the 
mother's side, though that's nothing to boast of. I 
mean to say that an Esmond is as good as a Churchill; 
and hark you, Harry — now swear you will never mention 
this. Give me your honor as a gentleman. 

Esmond. [A little impatiently] Well, well? 

My Lord. Well, then, when, after my late Viscount's 
misfortune, my mother went up with us to London — we 
went to stay with our cousin, my Lady Marlborough, 
with whom we had quarrelled for ever so long. But 
when misfortune came, she stood by her blood. 
Well, sir, we lived at my Lord Marlborough's house, 
who was only a little there, being away with the army 
in Holland. And then — I say, Harry, you won't tell, 
now? 

Esmond. I promise on my word as a gentleman, Frank. 
What happened? 

My Lord. Well, there used to be all sorts of fun, you know : 
my Lady Marlborough was very fond of us, and she said 
I was to be her page; and she got Trix to be a maid of 
honor; and Blandford fell tremendous in love with 
Trix, and she liked him; and one day, he — he kissed her 
behind a door — he did though — and the Duchess 
caught him and she banged such a box of the ear both 



64 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

at Trix and Blandford — you should have seen it! And 
then she said that we must leave directly, and abused 
my mamma. 

Esmond. How could she? How shocking! 

My Lord. She did, and so we came down to Walcote; 
Blandford being locked up, and not allowed to 
see Trix. But I got at him. I climbed along the 
gutter, and in through the window, where he was 
crying. 

Esmond. And what then? 

My Lord. "Marquis," says I, when he had opened it and 
helped me in, — "y° u know I wear a sword," for I had 
brought it. "O, Viscount," says he, "O, my dearest 
Frank!" and he threw himself into my arms and burst 
out a-crying. "I do love Mistress Beatrix so, that I 
shall die if I don't have her!" "My dear Blandford," 
says I, "you are young to think of marrying;" for he 
was but fifteen, and a young fellow of that age can 
scarce do so, you know. 

Esmond. Hardly. How absurd! But go on. 

My Lord. "I'll wait twenty years, if she'll have me," 
says he. "I'll never marry — no, never, never, never, 
marry anybody but her. If Beatrix will wait for me, her 
Blandford swears he will be faithful," and he wrote a 
paper. It wasn't spelt right, for he wrote, "I'm ready 
to sine with my blode," and vowed to be faithful. And so 
I gave him a locket of her hair. 

E smond . A locket of her hair ? 

My Lord. Yes, Trix gave me one after the fight with the 
Duchess that very day. I am sure I didn't want it 
and so I gave it to him, and we kissed at parting and 
said, "Good-bye, brother." And he went to King's 
College in Cambridge, and I'm going to Cambridge soon; 



Fourth Year] Henry Esmond 65 

and if he doesn't stand to his promise — he knows I 
wear a sword Harry. 

Esmond. A very pretty story, forsooth. 

My Lord. But I say, [laughing] I don't think Trix will 
break her heart about him. La bless you! whenever 
she sees a man, she makes eyes at him; and young Sir 
Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and Anthony 
Henley of Alresford, were at swords drawn about her, 
at the Winchester Assembly, a month ago. [Rising] 
But I must be off now. I 'm sorry, but I have an appoint- 
ment. I '11 tell mamma to come in to you. 

Esmond. Very well. But I must say Good-bye to you 
now, for this trip, Frank. I leave in the morning before 
you are up. 

My Lord. Oh, must you Harry? Too bad, too bad. I 
thought you were going to stay three days. But you'll 
be down soon again. Good-bye then, and good luck to 
you in the wars. 

He goes out. 

Esmond. [Soliloquizing] So the bright eyes have been 
already shining on another, and the pretty lips, or the 
cheeks at any rate, have begun the work which they 
were made for. Here 's a girl not sixteen, and one young 
gentleman is already whimpering over a lock of her hair, 
and two country squires are ready to cut each other's 
throats that they may have the honor of a dance with 
her. What a fool am I to be dallying about this passion 
and singeing my wings in this foolish flame! Wings! — 
Why not say crutches? There is but eight years differ- 
ence between us, to be sure; but in life I am thirty years 
older. How could I ever hope to please such a sweet 
creature as that, with my rough ways and glum face? 
Say that I have merit ever so much, and won myself a 



66 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

name, could she ever listen to me? She must be my 
Lady Marchioness. 

Enter Lady Castlewood. 

Lady Castlewood. [Going up to him and taking his hand] 
Why are you going so soon? Frank just told me you 
leave tomorrow morning. 

Esmond. It is best that it should be so, dearest lady. 

Lady Castlewood. I knew you would go when I left the 
table. What has happened? Why can't you remain 
longer with us? What has Frank told you? 

Esmond. My new General is to dine at Chelsey tomorrow 
— General Lumley, madam — who has appointed me his 
aide-de-camp, and on whom I must have the honor of 
waiting. 

Lady Castlewood. Well, what was it Frank told you? 

Esmond. He told me little I did not know. But I have 
thought of that little and here's the result. I must 
go immediately. If I thought for an hour of what has 
perhaps crossed your mind too — 

Lady Castlewood. Yes, I did, Harry. I thought of it; 
and think of it. I would sooner call you my son than 
the greatest prince in Europe — yes, than the greatest 
prince. For who is there so good and so brave, and who 
would love her as you would? But there are reasons a 
mother can't tell — 

Esmond. [Interrupting] I know them. I know there's 
Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and Mr. An- 
thony Henley of the Grange, and My Lord Marquis of 
Blandford, that seems to be the favored suitor. You 
shall ask me to wear my Lady Marchioness's favors 
and to dance at her Ladyship's wedding. 

Lady Castlewood. O! Harry, Harry! it is none of these 
follies that frighten me. The Marquis is but a child, and 
his outbreak about Beatrix was a mere boyish folly. 



Fourth Year] Henry Esmond 67 

His parents would rather see him buried than married 
to one below him in rank. And do you think that I 
would stoop to sue for a husband for Francis Esmond's 
daughter? I would disdain such a meanness; Beatrix 
would scorn it. Ah ! Henry, 'tis not with you the fault 
lies, 'tis with her. I know you both, and love you; need 
I be ashamed of that love now? No, never, never, and 
'tis not you, dear Harry, that is unworthy. 'Tis for my 
poor Beatrix I tremble — whose headstrong will frightens 
me; whose jealous temper, and whose vanity no words or 
prayers of mine can cure. O! Henry, she will make no 
man happy who loves her. Go away, my son: leave 
her, love us always, and think kindly of us: and for me, 
my dear, you know that these walls contain all that I 
love in the world. 
Esmond. I do your bidding, dearest lady, and go. But 
some day I shall return with a name perhaps, and 
then — 

Curtain 



The Making of Addison's Poem, "The Campaign." 



Characters : 
Mr. Joseph Addison. Henry Esmond. 

Captain Richard Steele. Mr. Boyle. 
The Maid. 

The scene represents Addison's lodgings in the Hay- 
market. The room is meagerly furnished. At one side 
is a table, laid with a frugal meal — a slice of meat on a small 
platter, and a loaf of bread. A large decanter of wine stands 
in the center of the table. Several small wooden chairs are 



68 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

near the table. At the other side is an old-fashioned writing 
desk, open, on which are maps and papers. As the curtain 
rises, Addison is discovered seated at his desk, studying the 
maps. He is dressed after the fashion of the time, in a snuff- 
colored suit; and wears a sword and a plain tie wig. The 
Maid enters. 

The Maid. [Timidly] Please, Sir, two fine gentlemen are 
below, asking to see you. 

Addison. Tell them I am very busy and will not be dis- 
turbed. 

The Maid. But, Sir, I told them that, and one, — the fine 
one in scarlet and gold lace, — he said, Sir, you would 
see him, and made me come up. 

Addison. Oh, that must be Dick! Yes, yes, show him 
up. — At last he has come to hear these verses. 

Exit Maid. She immediately returns ushering in 
Captain Steele, arrayed in a gorgeous costume of scarlet 
and lace, and Henry Esmond, who is more modestly 
dressed. Addison rises. 

Steele. [Rushing up to Addison and kissing him] My 
dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this age? 
[Still holding his friend's hands] I have been languishing 
for thee this fortnight. 

Addison. [Good-humor edly] A fortnight is not an age, 
Dick. And I have been hiding myself — where do you 
think? 

Steele. [With great alarm] What ! not across the water, 
my dear Joe? thou knowest I have always — 

Addison. [Smiling] No, we are not come to such straits 
as that, Dick. I have been hiding, sir, right here in my 
own lodgings, where you would have found me had you 
honored me with a visit. But the gentleman — [Indi- 
cating Esmond] 



Fourth Year] Henry Esmond 69 

Steele. Harry Esmond, whom I have brought to meet 
my dearest Joe, my guardian angel. Come hither, Harry 
Esmond. 

Esmond. [Approaching and bowing] Indeed, I am highly 
honored. I have long ago learnt to admire Mr. Addison. 
[Addressing Addison] We loved good poetry at Cam- 
bridge as well as at Oxford; and I have some of yours by 
heart, though I have put on a red coat — qui canoro 
blandius Orpheo vocale ducis carmen; shall I go on, sir? 

Steele. This is Captain Esmond, who was at Blenheim, 
my dear Joe. 

Esmond. Lieutenant Esmond, at Mr. Addison's service. 

Addison. [Smiling] I have heard of you and am most 
happy to make your acquaintance. [With courtly grace] 
Be seated, gentlemen. I was about to partake of my 
frugal dinner. Do me the honor to share it with me. 
And I can promise you [taking up the decanter] my wine 
is better than my meat; my Lord Halifax sent me the 
burgundy. 

They all seat themselves and begin to eat. Addison fills 
the glasses. 

Steele. And here's to the success of the poem, dearest Joe. 
They all drink. 

Addison. You see [pointing to his writing table] that I, too, 
am busy about your affairs, Captain. I am engaged as 
a poetical gazetteer, to say truth, and am writing a poem 
on the campaign. Come, show me how it was fought. 

Esmond. Right willingly, sir. Here ran the river, [indi- 
cating the course with the stem of his pipe, which he takes 
from his pocket] and here on the left was the wing in 
which I fought. And so we advanced. [Tapping on the 
table to show the advance] Do you know what a scene it 
was? [Becoming enthusiastic] What a triumph you are 
celebrating! What scenes of shame and horror were 



70 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

enacted, over which the commander's genius presided, 
as calm as though he didn't belong to our sphere! 
Steele. Does he know? Just listen to this! [Going to 
the desk and taking up a page of manuscript] 

While crowds of princes your deserts proclaim, 
Proud in their number to enroll your name; 
While emperors to you commit their cause, 
And ANNA'S praises crown the vast applause; 
Accept, great leader, what the muse recites, 
That in ambitious verse attempts your fights, 
Fired and transported with a theme so new. 
Ten thousand wonders opening to my view 
Shine forth at once; sieges and storms appear, 
And wars and conquests fill th' important year, 
Rivers of blood I see, and hills of slain, 
An Iliad rising out of one campaign. 

Bravo, Bravo! Is it not great? Another glass to 
The Poem! [They all drink.] 

And hark to this. [Turning a page] 

Our godlike leader, ere the stream he passed, 
The mighty scheme of all his labors cast 
Forming the wondrous year within his thought; 
His bosom glowed with battles yet unfought. 
The long, laborious march he first surveys, 
And joins the distant Danube to the Maese, 
Between whose floods such pathless forests grow, 
Such mountains rise, so many rivers flow; 
The toil looks lovely in the hero's eyes, 
And danger serves but to enhance the prize. — 

But I must go now, gentlemen, to meet Budgell at the 
George before the play. Pray let me not disturb you. Stay, 
Harry, and talk Blenheim with dearest Joe. He will profit 
by your wit, I doubt me not. And now adieu to both ! 

He embraces and kisses them both and goes off. Esmond 
and Addison take pipes and settle themselves comfortably to 



rourthYear] Henry Esmond 71 

Esmond. I admire the licence of your poets. I admire 
your art; the murder of the campaign is done to military 
music, like a battle at the opera. You hew out of your 
polished verses a stately image of smiling victory. I tell 
you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savage idol; hideous, 
bloody, and barbarous. You great poets should show 
war as it is, — ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene. 

Addison. [Quietly] What would you have? In our pol- 
ished days, and according to the rules of art, 'tis impos- 
sible that the Muse should depict tortures or begrime 
her hands with the horrors of war. Were I to sing as 
you would have me, the town would tear the poet in 
pieces, and burn his book by the hands of the common 
hangman. We must paint our great Duke, not as a man, 
which no doubt he is, with weaknesses like the rest of 
us, but as a hero. 

Esmond. There were as brave men on that field as the 
leader, whom neither knights nor senators applauded, nor 
voices plebeian or patrician favored, and who lie there for- 
gotten, under the clods. What poet is there to sing them? 

Addison. To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades ! 
Would you celebrate them all? One of the greatest of 
a great man's qualities is success; of all his gifts I admire 
that one in the great Marlborough. To be brave? every 
man is brave. But in being victorious, as he is, I fancy 
there is something divine. In presence of the occasion, 
the great soul of the leader shines out, and the god is 
confessed. Death itself respects him, and passes by him 
to lay others low. And yet [smiling] 'tis a pity I could 
not find a rhyme for Webb, your brave Colonel — else 
had he, too, found a place in this poem. But as for you 
[still smiling], you are but a lieutenant, and the Muse 
can't occupy herself with any gentleman under the rank 
of a field officer. 



72 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Enter the Maid, showing in Mr. Boyle. 

The Maid. A gentleman to see you, sir. 

Addison. [Rising and greeting his guest] My dear sir, 
welcome to my humble lodgings. Honored am I indeed, 
to see you again at my chambers. [Turning to Esmond] 
Captain Esmond, I have the honor to present Mr. Boyle. 

Mr. Boyle. [To Esmond] I am pleased to meet you, sir, 
[Looking toward the desk] And how goes on the magnum 
opus, Mr. Addison? 

Addison. We were but now over it. Here is the plan on 
the table; here ran the little river Nebel; here are Tal- 
lard's quarters, at the bowl of this pipe [indicating 
with his pipe] at the attack of which Captain Esmond 
was present; and Mr. Esmond was but now depicting 
aliquo proelia mixta mero, when you came in. 

Mr. Boyle. What more have you written since I was last 
here? I am all impatience to learn. Pray read. 

Addison takes up a paper and reads, timidly, at first, 
then, gradually becoming inspired, tvith great animation. 
You have not yet heard these lines : 

But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find 
To sing the furious troops in battle joined! 
Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, 
The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, 
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, 
And all the thunder of the battle rise! 
'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved, 
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, 
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, 
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war; 
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, 
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, 
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. 
So when an angel by divine command 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 



Fourth Year] He7Wy Esmond 73 

Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, 
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; 
And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. 

Mr. Boyle. [Springing up with great delight] Not a word 
more, my dear sir. Trust me with the papers — I'll 
defend them with my life. Let me read them over to my 
Lord Treasurer, whom I am appointed to see in half-an- 
hour. I venture to promise, the verses shall lose nothing 
by my reading, and then, sir, we shall see whether Lord 
Halifax has a right to complain that his friend's pension 
is no longer paid. 

He seizes the manuscript, places it in his breast; with 
his hand over his heart, executes a most gracious wave of 
the hat with the disengaged hand, smiles and bows himself 
out of the room. 

Addison. Does not the chamber look quite dark, after the 
glorious appearance and disappearance of that gracious 
messenger? Why, he illuminated the whole room. 
Your scarlet, Mr. Esmond, will bear any light; but this 
threadbare old coat of mine, how very worn it looked 
under the glare of that splendor! [Thoughtfully] I 
wonder whether they will do anything for me. 

Esmond. Of course they will. — Let me prophesy. Within 
a month from this very day, the whole town will be in an 
uproar of admiration of your poem, The Campaign. 
Dick Steele will be spouting it at every coffee-house in 
Whitehall and Covent Garden. The wits on the other 
side of Temple Bar will be saluting you as the greatest 
poet the world has seen for ages; the people will be 
huzzahing for Marlborough and for Addison, and, more 
than this, you will get some high office from the party 
in power, which will be only the beginning of the honors 



74 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

and dignities which from henceforth are to be showered 
upon you to the end of your life! 
Addison. [Laughing] Well, Captain Esmond, I shall try 
to believe you. Whichever way it turns, thank you very 
much for your kind words. When my good fortune 
comes you shall share with me another bottle. And now 
let us go abroad and take a turn on the Mall, or look in at 
the theatre and see Dick's comedy. 'Tis not a master- 
piece of wit; but Dick is a good fellow, though he doth 
not set the Thames on fire. 

They take their hats and go off as the curtain falls. 



Fourth Year] CoMUS 75 



COMUS 

John Milton 

PREFATORY NOTE 

Comus, abridged as follows, can be most effectively staged for high 
school production. It is to be given in a Prologue and five scenes, 
ending with an Epilogue. If possible it should be an out-of-door 
performance. 

The condensation requires occasional changes in the lines, combi- 
nation of lines now and then, and more rarely still, insertion of new 
lines. The stage setting is, of course, greatly simplified. The animal 
heads, necessary for the Crew of Comus, will offer slight difficulty to the 
high school boy or girl, whose ingenuity can be counted on in this, as in 
most matters of costuming. As much incidental music as possible 
should be introduced, preferably that of the original score by Henry 
Lawes, though there are many substitutes which can be used. 



The Persons: 
The Attendant Spirit, The Lady. 

afterwards in the habit of First Brother. 

Thyrsis. Second Brother. 

Comus, with his Crew. Sabrina, the Nymph. 

The stage presents a dense forest with an opening at the 
front. The Attendant Spirit, dressed in filmy, glittering 
robes, enters and delivers the Prologue. 

Prologue 

Spirit. 

Before the starry threshold of Jove's court 
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes 
Of bright aerial spirits live insphered 
In regions mild of calm and serene air, 
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats. 



76 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

But to my task. Neptune quarters this Isle, 
The greatest and the best of all the main, 
Unto his favorite blue-haired deities; 
And all this tract that fronts the falling sun 
A noble Peer of mickle trust and power 
Has in his charge, with tempered awe to guide 
An old and haughty nation, proud in arms : 
Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore, 
Are coming to attend their father's state, 
And new-intrusted scepter. But their way 
Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear wood, 
And here their tender age might suffer peril, 
But that, by quick command from sovran Jove, 
I was dispatched for their defence and guard : 
And listen why ; for I will tell you now 
What never yet was heard in tale or song, 
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. . . 

Once Bacchus came to Circe's magic isle, 
And stayed with her, bright daughter of the Sun; 
And ere he parted thence a son was born, 
Much like his father, but his mother more, 
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named : 
And he betook him to this ominous wood 
Where he in shelter of black shades imbowered, 
Excels his mother at her mighty art; 
Offering to every weary traveller 
His orient liquor in a crystal glass. 
Soon as the potion works, their human count 'nance, 
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed 
Into some brutish form of wolf or bear, 
Or ounce or tiger, hog, or bearded goat, 
All other parts remaining as they were. 
And they, so perfect is their misery, 
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, 



Pourth Year] CoiYlUS 11 

But boast themselves more comely than before, 
And all their friends and native home forget, 
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. 
Therefore, when any favored of high Jove 
Chances to pass through this adventurous glade, 
Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star 
I shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy, 
As now I do. But first I must put off 
These my sky-robes, spun out of Iris' woof, 
And take the weeds and likeness of a swain 
That to the service of this house belongs — 
What noise is that? I must be viewless now. 
Curtain 

Scene I 
The Dance 

The setting is the same; the time twilight. The curtain 
rises as Comus enters, with a charming-rod in one hand, his 
glass in the other: with him a rout of monsters, headed like 
sundry sorts of wild beasts, but otherwise like men and women. 
They come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches 
in their hands. 

Comus. 

The star that bids the shepherd fold 

Now the top of heaven doth hold. 

Rigor now is gone to bed; 

And Advice with scrupulous head, 

Strict Age, and sour Severity, 

With their grave saws, in slumber lie. 

By dimpled brook and fountain-brim, 

The wood-nymphs, decked with daisies trim, . 



78 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Their merry wakes and pastimes keep : 
What hath night to do with sleep? 
Now ere light dawns in the east, 
Let us welcome joy and feast, 
Midnight shout and revelry, 
Tipsy dance and jollity. 
Braid your locks with rosy twine, 
Dropping odors, dropping wine. 
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground 
In a light fantastic round. 

[They all join in a wild, hilarious dance which breaks 
of suddenly] 

Break off, break off ! I feel the different pace 
Of some chaste footing near about this ground. 
Run to your shrouds within these brakes and trees; 
Our number may affright. 

Curtain 

Scene II 
The Meeting of the Lady and Comtjs 

The scene is the same. The Lady is discovered alone, 
apparently lost in the forest. 

Lady. 

This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, 

My best guide now. Methought it was the sound 

Of riot and ill-managed merriment — 

My brothers, when they saw me wearied out 

Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket-side 

To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit 

As the kind hospitable woods provide. 

But where they are, and why they came not back, 



Fou th Year] 



Comus 79 



Is now the constant labor of my thoughts. 
I can not hallo to my brothers, but 
Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest 
I '11 venture, for my new-enlivened spirits 
Prompt me, and they perhaps are not far off. 
The Lady sings the following song. 

Song 

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen 

Within thy airy shell 

By slow Meander's margent green, 

And in the violet-embroidered vale 

Where the love-lorn nightingale 

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well: 

Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 

That likest thy Narcissus are? 

0, if thou have 

Hid them in some flowery cave, 

Tell me but where, 
Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the Sphere! 
So may'st thou be translated to the skies, 
And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies! 

As she concludes, Comus appears, disguised as a 

shepherd. 
Comus. — Hail, foreign wonder! 

Whom, certain, these rough shades did never breed, 

Unless the goddess that in rural shrine 

Dwell'st here with Pan or Sylvan, by blest song 

Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog 

To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. 
Lady. 

Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise 



80 Dramatization 



[Fourth Year 



That is addressed to unattending ears. 

Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift 

How to regain my severed company, 

Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo 

To give me answer from her mossy couch. 
Comus. 

What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you thus? 
Lady. 

Dim darkness, and this leavy labyrinth. 
Comus. 

Could that divide you from near-ushering guides? 
Lady. 

They left me weary on a grassy turf. 
Comus. 

By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why? 
Lady. 

To seek i' the valley some cool friendly spring. 
Comus. 

And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? 
Lady. 

They were but twain, and purposed quick return. 
Comus. 

Perhaps forestalling night prevented them. 
Lady. 

How easy my misfortune is to hit! 
Comus. 

Imports their loss, beside the present need? 
Lady. 

No less than if I should my brothers lose. 
Comus. 

Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom? 
Lady. 

Unrazored yet their lips. 



Fourth Year] CoTTlUS 81 

COMUS 

Two such I saw, 
Plucking the clustering fruit. If those you seek, 
It were a journey like the path to Heaven 
To help you find them. 

Lady. 

Gentle villager, 
What readiest way would bring me to that place? 

Comus. 

Due west it rises from this shrubby point. 

Lady. 

To find that out, good shepherd, I suppose, 
In such a scant allowance of star-light, 
Would overtask the best land-pilot's art, 
Without the sure guess of well-practised feet. 

Comus. 

I know each lane, and every alley green, 
Dingle, or bushy dell, of this wild wood, 
And every bosky bourn from side to side, 
My daily walks and ancient neighborhood; 
And if your stray attendance be yet lodged, 
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know 
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark 
From her thatched pallet rouse. If otherwise, 
I can conduct you, Lady, to a low 
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe 
Till further quest. 

Lady. 

Shepherd, I take thy word, 
And trust thy honest-offered courtesy. — 
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial 
To my proportioned strength! Shepherd, lead on. 
Curtain 



82 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

Scene III 
The Brothers' Discovery 

The setting is unchanged. As the curtain rises, the two 
Brothers are discovered in earnest conversation about their 
lost sister. 

Elder Brother. 

Unmuffle, ye faint stars ; and thou, fair moon, 
That wont'st to love the traveller's benison, 
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud, 
And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here 
In double night of darkness and of shades ! 

Second Brother. 

And, oh, that hapless virgin, our lost sister ! 
Where may she wander now, whither betake her 
From the chill dew, amongst rude burs and thistles? 
Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now, 
Or 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm 
Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears. 
What if in wild amazement and affright, 
Or, while we speak, within the direful grasp 
Of savage hunger, or of savage heat ! 

Elder Brother. 

I do not think my sister so to seek, 

Or so unprincipled in virtue's book, 

And the sweet peace that goodness bosoms ever, 

As that the single want of light and noise — 

Not being in danger, as I trust she is not — 

Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts, 

And put them into misbecoming plight. 

Virtue could see to do what Virtue would 

By her own radiant light, though sun and moon 

Were in the flat sea sunk — a 



Fourth Year] 



Comus 83 



Second Brother. [Interrupting] 

But listen brother. 
You may as well spread out the unsunned heaps 
Of miser's treasure by an outlaw's den, 
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope 
Danger will wink on Opportunity, 
And let a single helpless maiden pass 
Uninjured in this wild surrounding waste. 

Elder Brother. 

My sister is not so defenceless left 

As you imagine; she has a hidden strength, 

Which you remember not. 

Second Brother. 

What hidden strength, 
Unless the strength of Heaven, if you mean that? 

Elder Brother. 

I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength, 
Which, if Heaven gave it, may be termed her own. 
'Tis chastity, my brother, chastity: 
She that has that is clad in complete steel, 
And, like a quivered nymph with arrows keen, 
May trace huge forests, and unharbored heaths, 
Infamous hills, and sandy perilous wilds ; 
Where, through the sacred rays of chastity, 
N6 savage fierce, bandite, or mountaineer, 
Will dare to soil her virgin purity. 

Second Brother. 

How charming is divine Philosophy ! 
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 
But musical as is Apollo's lute, 
And a perpetual feast of nectared sweets, 
Where no crude surfeit reigns. 
A faint call is heard. 



84 Dramatization [Fourth Tear 

Elder Brother. 

List! list! I hear 

Some far-off hallo break the silent air. 
Second Brother. 

Methought so too; what should it be? 
Elder Brother. 

For certain, 

Either some one, like us, night-foundered here, 

Or else some neighbor woodman, or, at worst, 

Some roving robber calling to his fellows. 
Second Brother. 

Heaven keep my sister! Again, again, and near! 

Best draw, and stand upon our guard. 
Elder Brother. 

I'll hallo, 

If he be friendly, he comes well: if not, 

Defence is a good cause, and Heaven be for us! 
Enter the Attendant Spirit, habited like a shepherd. 
Second Brother. [As the Spirit approaches them] 

O brother, 'tis my father's Shepherd, sure. 
Elder Brother. [To the Spirit] 

Thyrsis! How earnest thou here? Hath any ram 

Slipped from the fold, or young kid lost his dam, 

Or straggling wether the pent flock forsook? 

How couldst thou find this dark sequestered nook? 
Spirit. 

my loved master's heir, and his next joy, 

1 came not here on such a trivial toy. [Looking around] 
But, oh! my virgin Lady, where is she? 

How chance she is not in your company? 
Elder Brother. 

To tell thee sadly, Shepherd, without blame 
Or our neglect, we lost her as we came. 



Fourth Year] CoiUUS 85 

Spirit. 

Ay me unhappy! then my fears are true. 

Elder Brother. 

What fears, good Thyrsis? Prithee briefly shew. 

Spirit. 

I '11 tell ye. 'Tis not vain or fabulous. — 
Within the navel of this hideous wood, 
Immured in cypress shades, a sorcerer dwells, 
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, 
Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries, 
And here to every thirsty wanderer 
By sly enticement gives his baneful cup, 
With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison 
The visage quite transforms of him that drinks, 
And the inglorious likeness of a beast 
Fixes instead, unmoulding reason's mintage 
Charactered in the face. — This evening late 
I sate me down to watch upon a bank, 
And soon the roar of Comus and his rout 
Filled all the air with barbarous dissonance. 
At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound 
Arose in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of Death. But, oh! ere long 
Too well I did perceive it was the voice 
Of my most honored Lady, your dear sister. 
Amazed I stood, harrowed with grief and fear; 
Then down the lawns I ran with headlong haste, 
Through paths and turnings often trod by day, 
Till, guided by mine ear, I found the place 
Where that damned wizard, hid in sly disguise 

(For so by certain signs I knew), had met 
Already, ere my best speed could prevent, 
The aidless innocent Lady, his wished prey; 
Who gently asked if he had seen such two, 



86 Dramatization [Fourth year 

Supposing him some neighbor villager. 

Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guessed 

Ye were the two she meant; with that I sprung 

Into swift flight, till I had found you here; 

But further I know not. 
Second Brother. 

O night and shades, 

Alone and helpless ! Is this the confidence 

You gave me, brother? 
Elder Brother. 

Yes, and keep it still; 

Lean on it safely; not a period 

Shall be unsaid for me. This I hold firm: 

Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, 

Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled. — 

But come, let's on! I'll draw my sword, 

Against the damned magician, be he girt 

With Harpies, Hydras, all the monstrous forms 
'Twixt Africa and Ind. I'll find him out, 

And force him to return his purchase back, 

Or drag him by the curls to a foul death, 

Cursed as his life. 
Spirit. 

Alas ! good venturous youth, 

I love thy courage yet, and bold emprise; 

But here thy sword can do thee little stead. 

Far other arms and other weapons must 

Be those that quell the might of hellish charms. 

He with his bare wand can unthread thy joints, 

And crumble all thy sinews. 
Elder Brother. 

Why, prithee, Shepherd, 

How durst thou then thyself approach so near 

As to make this relation? 



Fourth Year] ComUS 87 

Spirit. 

Listen why. — 

A certain shepherd lad once loved me well. 

He oft would sit and hearken to me sing, 

And in requital would he ope his scrip 

And show me simples of a thousand names. 

Amongst the rest a small unsightly root, 

But of divine effect, he culled me out. 

He called it Haemony, and gave it me, 

And bade me keep it as of sovran use 

'Gainst all enchantments, mildew blast, or damp, 

Or ghastly Furies' apparition. 

And here it is. Take it, and then you may 
[Giving it to the Elder Brother] 

Boldly assault the necromancer's hall; 

Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood 

And brandished blade rush on him: break his glass, 

And shed the luscious liquor on the ground; 

But seize his wand. Though he and his curst crew 

Fierce sign of battle make, and menace high, 

Or, like the sons of Vulcan, vomit smoke, 

Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink. 
Elder Brother. 

Thyrsis, lead on apace; I'll follow thee; 

And some good angel bear a shield before us! 
Curtain 

Scene IV 

The Enchantment and Release of the Lady 

The setting given in the masque for this scene must be sim- 
plified. The opening in the woods may be again utilized 
here: a pedestal or two, covered to represent marble, on which 



88 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

are tall vases of flowers; a bench or two covered in the same way; 
and two or three tables spread as if for a feast, will lend a 
festive touch to the scene. Soft music may be played during 
the dialogue. The Lady, dressed in flowing robes and seated 
in a large chair covered in white to represent marble, occupies 
the center of the stage. As the curtain rises, Comus appears 
with his train of animal-headed followers. They group 
themselves at the back and sides of the stage and Comus 
approaches the Lady and offers her his glass. She puts it by 
and is about to rise. 
Comus. 

Nay, Lady, sit; if I but wave this wand, 
Your nerves are all chained up in alabaster, 
And you a statue, or as Daphne was, 
Root-bound, that fled Apollo. 
Lady. 

Fool, do not boast; 
Thou canst not touch the freedom of my mind 
With all thy charms, although this corporal rind 
Thou hast immanacled while Heaven sees good. 
Comus. 

Why are you vexed, Lady? why do you frown? 
Here dwell no frowns, nor anger; from these gates 
Sorrow flies far. See, here be all the pleasures 
That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts. 
And first behold this cordial julep here, 
That flames and dances in his crystal bounds, 
With spirits of balm and fragrant syrups mixed. 
Why should you be so cruel to yourself, 
You, that have been all day without repast 
And timely rest have wanted. Why refuse 
Refreshment after toil? One taste, fair virgin! [Pleadingly] 
This will restore all soon. 
He offers her the glass again. 



Fourth Year] CoTtlUS 89 

Lady. 

'Twill not, false traitor! 
'Twill not restore the truth and honesty 
That thou hast banished from thy tongue with lies. 
Was this the cottage and the safe abode 
Thou told'st me of? What grim aspects are these, 
These ugly -headed monsters? Mercy guard me! 
Hence with thy brewed enchantments, foul deceiver! 
Good men — 'tis they alone can give good things. 
And that which is not good is not delicious 
To a well-governed and wise appetite. 

Comus. 

O foolishness of men! that lend their ears 

In praise of lean and sallow Abstinence! 

Wherefore did Nature pour her bounties forth 

With such a full and unwithdrawing hand, 

Covering the earth with odors, fruits, and flocks, 

Thronging the seas with spawn innumerable, 

But all to please and sate the curious taste 

Of her dear children. Why, if all the world 

Should, in a pet of temperance, feed on pulse, 

Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, 

The All-giver would be unthanked, would be unpraised. 

List, Lady; be not coy, and be not cozened 

With that same vaunted name, Virginity. 

Beauty is Nature's coin; must not be hoarded; 

If you let slip time, like a neglected rose 

It withers on the stalk with languished head. 

Beauty is Nature's brag, and must be shown 

In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities. 

Think Lady, be advised; you are but young yet. 

Lady. 

Impostor! do not charge most innocent Nature, 
As if she would her children should be riotous 



90 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

With her abundance. She, good cateress, 

Means her provision only to the good, 

That live according to her sober laws, 

And holy dictate of spare Temperance. 

Shall I go on, or have I said enough? 

Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced. 

Yet, should I try, the uncontrolled worth 

Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits 

To such a flame of sacred vehemence 

That dumb things would be moved to sympathize, 

And the brute earth would lend her nerves, and shake, 

Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, 

Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head. 

Comus. [Aside] 

She fables not. I feel that I do fear 

Her words set off by some superior power; 

I must dissemble, and try her yet more strongly. 

[To the Lady] 
This is mere moral babble, and direct 
Against the canon laws of our foundation. 
But this will cure all straight; one sip of this 
Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight 
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste. 

The Brothers rush in with swords drawn, wrest his glass 
out of his hand, and break it against the ground; his rout 
make sign of resistance, but are all driven in. The Attend- 
ant Spirit comes in. The Lady meanwhile remains motionless. 

Spirit. 

What! have you let the false enchanter scape? 
O ye mistook; ye should have snatched his wand, 
And bound him fast. Without his rod reversed, 
And backward mutters of dissevering power, 
We cannot free the Lady that sits here 
In stony fetters fixed and motionless. 






Fourth Year] 



Comus 91 



Yet stay: be not disturbed; now I bethink me, 
Some other means I have which may be used. 

There is a gentle Nymph not far from hence, 
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream: 
Sabrina is her name: a virgin pure; 
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine, 
That had the scepter from his father Brute. 
She, guiltless damsel, flying the mad pursuit 
Of her enraged stepdame, Guendolen, 
Commended her fair innocence to the flood, 
And underwent a quick immortal change. 
Now, Goddess of the river, she retains 
Her maiden gentleness, and can unlock 
The clasping charm, and thaw the numbing spell, 
If she be right invoked in warbled song; 
For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift 
To aid a virgin, such as was herself, 
In hard-besetting need. This will I try, 
And add the power of some adjuring verse. 

Song 
Sabrina fair, 

Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 

In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; 

Listen for dear honor's sake, 
Goddess of the silver lake, 

Listen and save! 

By all the Nymphs that nightly dance 
Upon thy streams with wily glance; 
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head 
From thy coral-paven bed, 



92 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

And bridle in thy headlong wave, 
Till thou our summons answered have. 
Listen, and save! 

At the conclusion of the song Sabrina appears, dressed in 
clinging robes of a blue-green hue, adorned as far as pos- 
sible to suggest her river home. She sings the following : 

Song 
By the rushy-fringed bank, 
Where grows the willow and the osier dank, 

My sliding chariot stays, 
Thick set with agate, and the azurn sheen 
Of turkis blue, and emerald green, 

That in the channel strays; 
Whilst from of the waters fleet 
Thus I set my printless feet 
O'er the cowslip's velvet head, 
That bends not as I tread. 
Gentle swain, at thy request 
I am here. 
Spirit. 

Goddess dear, 
We implore thy powerful hand 
To undo the charmed band 
Of true virgin here distressed 
Through the force and through the wile 
Of unblessed enchanter vile. 
Sabrina. 

Shepherd, 'tis my office best 
To help ensnared chastity. 
Brightest Lady, look on me. 
Thus I sprinkle on thy breast 
Drops that from my fountain pure 
I have kept of precious cure; 



Fourth Year] 



Comus 93 



Thrice upon thy finger's tip 
Thrice upon thy rubied lip: 
Next this marble venomed seat, 
Smeared with gums of glutinous heat, 
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold. 
Now the spell hath lost his hold; 
And I must haste ere morning hour 
To wait in Amphitrite's bower. 

She vanishes and the Lady rises, freed from the spell. 
Spirit. [To the Lady and her Brothers] 
Come, let us haste to Ludlow now, 
Where you must each fulfill your vow. 
I shall be your faithful guide 
Through this gloomy covert wide; 
And not many furlongs thence 
Is your Father's residence, 
Where this night are met in state 
Many a friend to gratulate 
His wished presence, and beside 
All the swains that there abide 
With jigs and rural dance resort. 
We shall catch them at their sport. 

Come, Lady; while Heaven lends us grace, 
Let us fly this cursed place, 
Lest the sorcerer us entice 
With some other new device. 

They all resume their journey. 
Curtain 

Scene V 

The Welcome at Ludlow Castle 

The scene presents the grounds of Ludlow Castle, show- 
ing many signs of the festive occasion. A group of country folk 



94 Dramatization [Fourth Year 

in gay holiday dress, are about to form for a country dance, as 
the curtain rises. At one side sit in state the Earl of Bridge- 
water and his wife. The figures of a country dance are first 
executed with great merriment. This may be made as elabo- 
rate as desired. As the dance is about to end, the Spirit, 
leading the Lady and her two Brothers, enters. He waves 
the dancers aside and presents the children to their Mother 
and Father as he sings the following: 



Spirit. 



Song 

Back, shepherds, back! enough your play 

Till next sun-shine holiday. 

Here be, without duck or nod, 

Other trippings to be trod 

Of lighter toes, and such court guise 

As Mercury did first devise 

With the mincing Dryades 

On the lawns and on the leas. 

[He presents the children to their Father and Mother] 

Noble Lord and Lady bright, 
I have brought ye new delight. 
Here behold so goodly grown 
Three fair branches of your own. 
Heaven hath timely tried their youth, 
Their faith, their patience, and their truth, 
And sent them here through hard assays 
With a crown of deathless praise, 
To triumph in victorious dance 
O'er sensual folly and intemperance. 






Fourth Year] CoTYlUS 95 

At the conclusion of the singing, after appropriate 
greetings, another dance is given in which the Lady and 
the Brothers join. As it ends, the Spirit steps forward 
and speaks the Epilogue. 

Epilogue 

To the ocean now I fly, 
And those happy climes that lie 
Where day never shuts his eye, 
Up in the broad fields of the sky. 
There I suck the liquid air, 
All amidst the gardens fair 
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
That sing about the golden tree. 
There eternal Summer dwells, 
And west- winds with musky wing 
About the cedarn alleys fling 
Nard and cassia's balmy smells. 

But now my task is smoothly done: 
I can fly, or I can run, 
Quickly to the green earth's end, 
Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend, 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the moon. 
Mortals, that would follow me, 
Love Virtue; she alone is free. 
She can teach ye how to climb 
Higher than the sphery chime; 
Or, if Virtue feeble were, 
Heaven itself would stoop to her. 
Curtain 



MAY 28 1913 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2007 

PreservationTechnologies 



